Electric Perfection
by Hogwarts Heroine
Summary: The war had left their futures, their souls, their very existence disjointed. How can they put back the pieces, and can they do it better than was achieved in the wake of the first Wizarding War? Contains dark themes, potential triggers and sexual content in later chapters.
1. Snap

Snap

It started on the platform. It was near enough 11, and yet there was an eerie emptiness. The usual rush for carriages was more of an uncertain exploration, as students gingerly accepted that they did not have their usual compartment fellows to share with. The platform, usually filled with overwrought, loving parents and siblings, seemed immense in its sparsity.

Hermione tugged the right sleeve of her jumper down once again, before following Ron through the sliding door of an empty booth, taking the shadowy corner seat by the window. Feeling the warmth of Harry's hand pushing to intertwine between her fingers, she accepted the small comfort readily. The trio sat, still and silent, as the hollow whistle blew and the doors were pulled shut.

As the train began to move, Seamus pulled the door open and asked to join them. It wasn't as if there weren't plentiful free carriages, but Hermione could empathise with his desire to be close to people. Dean and a sallow-skinned Luna followed him, and the carriage began a muted game of exploding snap. It was far from the rowdy affairs of previous years, but it was something they had thought they'd never experience again.

The trolley passed through the train, and as a chocolate frog explored their carriage, the box revealed only it's ornate delft and golden cardboard. There was no famous witch or wizard to collect. It felt incomplete. The Hogwarts Express had long delivered students bubbles of anticipation, but now it held a disarming dissonance. It was both as it should be, and as it never was. The closeness of the passengers only served to emphasise the heady mix of salted cockroach clusters and saccharine perfume throughout the train. Hermione stood to change elsewhere, keen to escape the queasy realisation of just how permanent the impact of the war was.

Finding a private carriage on the train that was more empty than she'd ever known it, she eased the blind shut and pulled her jacket down her arms. She nimbly unbuttoned her blouse and eased it down her left arm, then peeling her jeans off before taking a deep breath. Squeezing her eyes shut, she pulled the fabric off her other arm, leaving her standing in her underwear.

She quickly became uniquely aware of the reflective window of the carriage, as she stole a look at her body looking back at her. She saw the top of her now-toned thighs, the small, milk white stomach resting against her lace black underwear. She brought her hands to cover the scars across her emaciated ribs, still red and angry from Dolohov's purple flame. She rose her right hand again, to adjust the cup of the black material supporting her breasts, and gasped.

_Mudblood._

Squeezing her eyes shut again, she drew the offending arm away from her and nimbly pulled on her white pressed shirt. The long sleeves would offer at least a temporary reprieve from the mark. Once dressed, she pulled on her robe and absentmindedly fondled the badge firmly attached to the lapel. Her thoughts were interrupted by a light knocking on the door, and she curiously opened the door.

"Hermione, I wondered where you'd gotten to!"

Neville. His warm smile seemed almost a world away, and she longed to be there with him. Then she was. Wrapped up in his strong arms, he pulled her against his strong chest and even went so far as to lean his face into her brown curls. She felt miniscule in his grasp, and when he released her, he noted that since the battle she had done little to soften the sharpness of her cheekbones and the severity of her jawline.

She was still beautiful, of course, there was no question of that. Yet the happy sparkle that he'd known to be behind her eyes seemed dulled somehow. Even as she stepped back into the carriage, allowing him to come in, there remained a guarded warmth to her expression. He sank into the bench opposite her, and eyed her Head Girl badge.

"Snap! I guess that means we'll be sharing a dorm this year then," Neville said gently.

She shifted in her seat. It wasn't Malfoy. It wasn't Zabini. It wasn't another battle. It was Neville. Comfortable, solid, dependable Neville. She hadn't given voice to her concerns when neither Harry nor Ron had received the Head Boy owl, but there was an unspoken wariness amongst the trio from that moment on. Neither had sought out the position, Harry had actively hoped it wasn't to fall on his shoulders, but there was the sensitive issue of living arrangements to be concerned about.

"Neville, that's fantastic. I hope you're not too disappointed it's me you're living…"

He interrupted her panic with a laugh. She was his friend, and had been for eight years now, refusing to let him be cast aside by others students. He simply couldn't fathom how she would believe he would ever be disappointed to work or live with her.

"I'm more than happy it's you, Hermione. I wanted to mention that if you want to give Harry the password to our dorm, it's completely fine with me."

She blushed slightly, hoping he wasn't insinuating… but no, his eyes were genuine. She appreciated the gesture, it had been a long time since she'd spent a night away from Harry, for both their sakes. She smiled back at Neville, and without further comment on the matter, began a discussion on the Prefect rota until they felt the train pull into Hogsmede.


	2. Frozen

Frozen

The heaviness of her velvet-lined robes was a comforting pressure on her body, she finally felt a weak connection to herself for the first time that day as she stepped into the nearest thestral-led carriage. She shot a glance over to the Prefects directing the First Years, where for the first time in an age, most of the eleven year olds could see the skeletal frames of the carnivorous creatures. A shiver hit her spine, and Ron wrapped a firm arm around her shoulders.

"Cold again 'Mione?"

The question hung in the air, unanswered. A smooth wave of Luna's wand brought a soft flow of warm air into the centre of the coach, allowing for some comfort while they returned to the doors of Hogwarts for the first time since the Summer. They seemed to be following the normal route, along the edge of the dark, dense forest. They were so close; the lower branches were grazing along the metal doors. Professor Snape had died there, Harry too, in a way. For a moment, she was back to that… place… again, when all seemed lost, the first time she no longer cared if she lived or died.

Harry's face belied the tight knot in his stomach, and his eyes bored into Hermione's. The Great Hall. Surely, they would not be returning to the room that had so recently been the immediate resting place of their friends? They were finally on the path toward the main doors. They must be. His mouth grew firmer. She knew he was offering her entrance to his mind, almost willing her in. Again. With a deep breath, she felt the resolute wall protect her own memories, and she tenderly probed his immediate thoughts.

_Remus, his hand intertwined with Tonks, eyes closed. The savaged face of Lavender Brown, eyes unable to close peacefully. The small frame of Colin, the only time he'd seen him sans camera._ No. This had to stop. Enough. Almost as if she were nudging one of Crookshank's toys away with her foot, she pushed at the thoughts. She thought of the Great Hall, as firmly as she could without bruising her own barrier, and thought of the Yule Ball. Parvati and Padma, in their beautiful dress robes, the overzealous cologne Harry had liberally applied, the snarking of Ron when Viktor emerged as her date. Warmth. Happiness. Ease. _Beautiful._ What? That last one wasn't hers, but rather his own kindness to her.

As smoothly as she could, she stepped back from his mind before he could peek behind her occlumency. Neville was opening the carriage door, the thestral having come to a halt, offering Luna a hand down. She took it, and the mist of a smile settled on her face for the first time Hermione could recall of late. They walked up to the castle, Ron swallowing hard. Fred had died here, and Ron had not returned over the summer.

"I hope this doesn't take long, I'm starving."

His easiness didn't meet his eyes. Fred was mourned for the first time in the room waiting up the last few steps ahead. It had started in those moments, never to end. Yet they, like everyone before them and all of those to come after, took step after step. They did not stop, nor falter. As they always had, they continued. And then there it was. There they were.

The Great Hall. The stonework was immaculate, almost overly so. The marginally cleaner arches were the only signs of change. The flagstones were no longer bloodstained and broken, the candles were lit in a warm yellow haze, the window was immaculately repaired. The tragedy had been sanitised.

Hermione gazed up, much like she had all those years ago, keen to see what Bagshot had so exquisitely described for the first time. The enchanted sky that had for so long smelt like magic and tasted of dreams was a marengo grey, eerily still and dull. It was as though all of the stars had burnt out. Snapping her head back down, she followed Harry to their house table, backs to the wall.

Students were smiling and waving, in other cases staring wide-eyed at their group. Harry Potter, she smiled softly, ever the celebrity. She redirected her attention to the staff table, as she heard a small gasp beside her. Dumbledore. He was here, occupying the seat ordinarily taken by the Transfiguration Professor. Harry was frozen for a second, knuckles white from gripping the table. This man, however, had a silkier greyness to his beard. He was younger. It was Aberforth. He looked markedly uncomfortable, clearly they had not been the only students momentarily stunned by his appearance.

"Weird, isn't it? I guess this place will never stop surprising us."

Ginny had arrived, taking the seat opposite Ron. They exchanged a few words, before she was distracted by a conversation with Seamus who was sharing an inappropriate story Rita Skeeter had written about Aberforth and one of his favourite goats. Hermione turned to the high table.

Sybil Trelawney was there, for the first time perhaps, and was emphatically explaining something to a wearied Professor Sinistra. A missing chair, where Professor Hooch had sat for the years before her death. Then there was Professor Babbling, sitting in silence next to the awkward Aberforth, and Professor Vector. The ornate chair they had last seen taken up by Albus Dumbledore was empty, but a place setting served in front of it.

Then, Slughorn, who gave her an almost-roguish smile, chatting raucously with Professor Sprout and a new red-headed witch sitting in the Defence against the Dark Arts seat, with Professor Binns glancing around the hall in a dull silence. Nothing new there, then. Finally, Hagrid was softly conversing with Arthur Weasley, the new Muggle Studies Professor. He offered a friendly smile to Hermione, before turning his attention back to the frightened First Years awaiting sorting. Flitwick finally brought the Frog Chorus to a close, and Professor McGonagall took centre stage.

Silence spread throughout the hall. It was time.

"Welcome back to another year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. You will see many new faces amongst the staff this year, but before we get to that, we have a plethora of new arrivals to sort into houses."

The sorting began, Arthur Weasley guiding the students to the stool, and the students clapping appropriately at each grizzled shout from the Sorting Hat, aside from a few awkward near-silences from the much depleted Slytherin table. However, there was a sense of listlessness with the process for the first time. It had always been exciting, to see new faces, but Hermione could not help but wait inquisitively for how the Headmistress would use her maiden speech.

With the final small framed boy tripping on his robe as he ambled toward the Hufflepuff table, McGonagall stood again.

"This year, we have a number of new and returning staff. I trust that you will be suitably introduced to them in time, as you begin classes. In the meantime, I wish to introduce a few friendly faces you may turn to during your time here. Our Head Boy, Neville Longbottom, and Head Girl, Hermione Granger, are here to help guide and support you during your time here. They will, I'm sure, continue to be excellent examples of what you can achieve in your time at Hogwarts, and will be invaluable in helping our newest students settle in."

Hermione felt her face warm uncomfortably, as a sea of eyes seemed to seek her out. Ron gave her hand a friendly squeeze, as McGonagall continued her speech.

"You should also recognise Mr. Filch, our long-time caretaker who has succeeded in restoring the third floor corridor for the first time in years."

"I thought she said friendly faces?" Dean Thomas snorted under his breath, just loud enough for the others to hear.

"…you will be guided to your common rooms by your Head of House. In this instance, we have a new Head of Gryffindor, also teaching Defence against the Dark Arts. Professor Patricia Rakepick is an accomplished curse breaker, who has newly returned from her work in Egypt, and is keen to meet you all. I am sure you will find her a wonderful addition to our school."

With that, she turned and took her place in the golden wooden chair at the centre of the high table, and there was a moment of hush in the room. That was it. Nothing further, nothing deeper. The food had materialised on the tables. Lavish dishes of roasted beef, crisp potatoes, goblin-wrought silver boats with lashings of rich gravy. The appearance of the food was met with wide eyed gasps from the newest Muggleborns in the fold. Soon, the Great Hall was abuzz with the lightest chattering it had ever known, almost overpowered by the keen clink of cutlery.

As soon as they wouldn't be missed, Hermione made her way up to the Head's dormitory, her arm soothingly linked with Harry's. Neither spoke until they reached her room, both trying to piece together what had just happened.

Everything they had ever known had changed. Everything. Right here in this very building. They knew that. Yet here, in this castle-shaped bubble, there was a pretence of normality.

Another year, another deceit.


	3. Saviour

Saviour

Neville did not see Hermione at breakfast, which meant she hadn't received the summons from the Headmistress. It was a lonely affair. The claustrophobic benches that had previously allowed too little personal space were now mostly populated with the memories of those who would never sit there again. As he spooned the porridge to his mouth, it was as though the void consumed him. A creeping nothingness that twisted itself around him like a constrictor. He did not finish his bowl.

Eventually, he tracked her down in the library. Apparently Ron's absence had been long enough to encourage him back into Madam Pince's tightly guarded domain. He paused for a moment, watching their interaction. Hermione wore a soft scowl, and he could just about hear something about Felix Felicis. Ron, conversely, was grinning broadly. As he walked toward them, he finally heard Hermione speak.

"Ronald. Luck can only take you so far before…"

If possible, Ron smiled more widely.

"'Mione, I haven't taken it. You just need to accept that the overdue list is gone, apparently the Carrow's didn't set much store in library fines."

Neville took the remaining space on the bench, trying to mask his amusement. They certainly hadn't changed too much in the past year, then. Waiting until Hermione huffed out her disappointment, he pushed the parchment toward her.

"At nine? We'd better go now, sorry Neville! I hadn't thought about the post."

With that, she swept her books into her bag, shot a final contemptuous look at Ron, and they left the library, swiftly climbing their way to the seventh floor office. Making it to the golden stone gargoyle, that had been painstakingly restored by Professor Flitwick since the battle. She heard Neville murmur the password ("Kurilian"), and the stairs revealed themselves.

Watching them turn, she felt swept back to the hours after Voldemort's defeat. Back when the air seemed suffocating, not with dust, but with loss. How little had changed.

She and Harry had given the Weasley's space to grieve, and she had accompanied him back to the office. The stairs had been unguarded, but the same emptiness could not be said about the multitude of portraits. She could not bring herself to look at one in particular. Him. Dumbledore. She turned, lightly tracing the runes of the pensieve, until Harry took her hand and brought her into a memory.

All she could remember after that moment was Professor Snape. His love, his life given for love. A great man, yes, but a good man too. Always. Men like Severus Snape had legacies bigger than a portrait. She would make sure of it. They all would…

"…Hermione?"

Neville's voice drew her back, as he rapped on the door and stepped in. Immediately, it was clear that all was not as they had anticipated.

In the usually spacious and uncluttered office, were seven chairs. On which sat seven people, six of them familiar. The small, vacant eyes of Gregory Goyle; the high-forehead of a gaunt looking Daphne Greengrass; pug-faced Parkinson; the ungainly legs of Theodore Nott; a broad-set auror she vaguely recalled from the Department of Mysteries; the aristocratic cheekbones of Blaise Zabini and… there it was, right at the end, the platinum-haired tinge of a Malfoy. Her eyes passed over the group, impassive. She could feel the indignation emanate from Neville, standing over her shoulder.

They turned to face Professor McGonagall, who gave them a tight lipped smile.

"Welcome, both of you. I wanted to introduce our returning Slytherins to our new Head students. I'm sure you are sufficiently… acquainted."

Hermione felt sixteen eyes scan her unapologetically, as she pulled at her robes.

"As you know, you are all to complete a NEWT in Muggle Studies this academic year, as a condition of your return. You will be expected to achieve an Exceeds Expectations at minimum in this course to graduate. We have, given the untimely loss of Professor Burbage, appointed a new teacher. I believe you will find him more than proficient, and able to answer questions."

Most of the students had looks of extreme disinterest, hardly surprising.

"Given you only have a year to complete this, classes will begin today and have additional sessions beginning next Saturday. Your trunks have been sent to your dormitories, and your Head of House will meet with you in the common room this evening. I trust there are no questions?"

She briefly turned her head, and saw Pansy's arm in the air.

"Professor, shouldn't we have something to protect us? I don't want to be subject to attacks from mudbloods in the corridors if you expect me to stay here."

Nott turned to kick her, at the word mudblood, instead colliding painfully with the wood of her chair and receiving a sharp glare from the girl.

"Ms. Parkinson. We do not use that word. I do believe you are aware of that, so you may enjoy a detention with Mr. Filch tomorrow evening. I'm sure you will remember in future. As per your personal safety, I do not believe that any student within these halls would wish for further bloodshed."

Hermione couldn't help but raise an eyebrow at that. Neville had not calmed down, and the temperature in the room had increased noticeably as a result. Her eyes briefly met Pansy's, who almost looked to her as the voice of reason. She remained silent.

"Ms. Granger and Mr. Longbottom will guide you there, accompany you to lunch and then return you to your common room at the end of class, to ensure you can find your way. Professor Weasley will be teaching on the third floor this year. I believe, Miss Granger, that you know the area well."

Hermione had the decency to blush slightly, raising an all too interested look from Zabini. With that, the group was dismissed into their care. Neville, jaw set, nostrils flared, fists clenched, went to open the door. Hermione looked at McGonagall in disbelief. Surely she realised the immediate danger these students were in, let alone the potential threat they posed to others at the school? But no. The headmistress offered her a small nod, before turning away.

With that, she turned and took the lead through the door, trusting Neville to bring up the rear. She was convinced there would be stragglers. Muggle Studies with Arthur Weasley. What an interesting turn this would be. Emerging from the staircase, she saw the Auror give her what she assumed was supposed to be a comforting smile. It did little to help.

Parkinson was first to step through into the castle, opting to remain tight with the auror and Hermione, self-conservation at its finest. Zabini was close behind, tall and poised, as if nothing about their presence was in any way remarkable. She waited until she saw Neville emerge, eyes trained on her. He wasn't going to let her out of his sight for a second. They began, from the seventh floor to the third. She longed to have had more notice, to plan a lesser used route. Thankfully, most students seem to have taken the morning to sleep in, but the gaping mouths of those they did encounter did nothing for her nerves.

"So Granger, care to share why you know so much about the third floor corridor?"

Zabini's mouth lay in a handsome smirk, swiftly wiped off his face as the auror silently hit him with a small burst of lightening. Hermione snapped her head around to him, shocked.

"There's no need for that. This is Hogwarts, not Azkaban," she barked.

The auror smiled, and the Slytherins sensed an increasingly riled up Hermione Granger. Yet that particular train didn't arrive, much to the disappointment of a number in the group. Instead, they continued their journey and they were soon amongst the Muggle artefacts of the corridor where she had first encountered Fluffy all those years ago. If the students were interested, they didn't show it. Hermione knocked on the classroom door, and entered, revealing a classroom adorned with the warm presence of Arthur Weasley. She heard a discernible groan from at least one of the people behind her.

"Hermione! Hello. If you could all enter and take a seat please! Proudfoot, good to see you, you don't have to stay. They'll be quite alright with me. Would the two of you like to stay for a few minutes, so I can let you know what time we'll be breaking for lunch?"

Reluctantly, they took a seat at the back of the classroom, Neville unable to say a word.

"Welcome, class! As this is Muggle Studies, we'll start by putting our wands away in this box – it'll get you all into the mind of a Muggle, or that's how I usually…"

Arthur continued on. From her position, she could quietly observe the behaviour of the people in front of her, while also casting a discrete cooling charm on a rapidly overheating Head Boy. They seemed focused, hardly plotting an attack on Hogwarts, but they seemed reticent to give over their wands. She certainly wouldn't hand over hers, even in their position. Yet, they all did and made no further comment.

She couldn't concentrate on Mr. Weasley. She stood up to leave, Malfoy's head snapping backward to look at her. She ignored him as best she could, and left the room hearing a call of "break at one", as Neville closed the door behind them. She turned to face the wall, pressing her forehead against the cool stone. She brought her hand to her neck, and rolled a tight pinch of her skin between her fingers. She needed this to stop. The sting allowed her to breathe for what felt like the first time since stepping into that office. Her mind slowed, soothed at last. She could finally hear Neville retching behind her, buying her a few more seconds of comfort.

The rest of the day passed as uneventfully as bringing a group of much maligned Slytherins to the Great Hall could. She was grateful, at last, when they handed them to Professor Slughorn in the dungeons that evening. He ushered them in, before turning to Hermione.

"I do hope you'll join us this weekend for a Slug Club dinner, Miss Granger? You look starved! No offence meant, of course, but it's been a busy year. Lots to catch up on, I'm sure!"

She nodded, not daring to speak, and guided Neville back to their rooms. She was unsurprised to find a gaggle of their friends waiting outside. She uttered the password, and allowed them to trail in. Ron was practically foaming at the mouth.

"What the fuck are they doing? Allowing those animals back inside the castle?" "Hermione, did they touch you? I'll kill them." "Neville, I don't know how you didn't hex them. Are you okay?" "Sitting in… in there. Where Fred was."

"No one is acknowledging anything, we're left to wade through it all, with no clarity whatsoever. It's only going to cause problems, for us and for them. They did this after the first war, brushed it under carpet – and we all know how that turned out."

Everyone turned to look at Neville. He had finally put voice to the last twenty-four hours at Hogwarts. Few of them knew much of the aftermath of the initial conflict, but Neville spent the next few hours filling them in. The conversation continued, turning to softer topics as the candles burnt lower, and Hermione eventually nodded off in the pleasant warmth of the common room. As Neville carefully extinguished the candles, Harry gently carried her to bed.

Hours later, he lay, his silent tears hot and endless. Yet they were never enough. Nothing ever would be, to make up for those who hadn't made it to what was supposed to be a new world. Every minute of the day, he held them in his mind, but it had been some time since he had mourned so openly for them. Hogwarts was the problem. He knew that. Surely everything had changed? Why wasn't that the focus, why weren't the facts being confronted, when there was so much left to do? Deceit by omission is still deceit, after all. It had been bad enough over the summer, funeral after funeral. An endless stream of handshakes; and amongst the older generations, a determined attitude to move on and accept even their closest losses for the prospect of moving forward. It seemed that moving forward was forgetting all that had passed, sinking back into the comfort of the pre-war era, where all of the problems had started. He wasn't alone in finding that strange, revolting even. They had supposed that they needed some time to heal the most gaping wounds before they took steps to safeguard society more permanently. Now, it seemed there was no next step.

Hermione. She was transformative. Every night, when his exhaustion burned like the scorching blackness of embers, she was there. When he could hold her shrinking frame close, and inhale the delicate blend of spearmint and jasmine she always gave off, the edges of the night were softened somehow. She was the closest thing to family he had ever known, and she was more than he had ever dared hope for. She was always enough to lull him to a peaceful sleep. She was his saviour.

They were close, yes. It had been difficult to explain to Ron. It had been impossible to explain to Ginny. There had been anger and accusations, things had become strained. Perhaps that was an understatement. It wasn't that Hermione had lost more than others, but she had the most to lose as a Muggleborn and had applied herself accordingly. It was as though she had frozen over when Voldemort died, as if all the exhaustion, pressure and danger she had faced collided with her at once. She had been so resilient, stronger than him if truth be told, over the past year and even before. Always solving problems. Always offering support. Always present. Always selfless. It had never occurred to him that this would have such a cost, for she had never shown it and, if he was honest, he'd never dared imagine a post-war world. She was hurting. He wanted nothing more than to shoulder her pain for her, but she would never allow it. All he could do was be there. He had his own difficulties too. The pressure he felt was crushing, all-consuming. He craved normality, he always had. It had always escaped him, except her. She was constant.

So together, they slept. Comfort. Each able to mollify the worst excesses of grief, anger, loss and pain in the other. It had brought them closer than ever. Nothing had felt quite as right for a long time. He wasn't alone. Neither was she. If they had nothing else, they would have each other. Even now, as she stirred in his arms, was the most perfect things had been for a long while. Neither had any intention to give up the only source of comfort they had found.

"Class starts today," she murmured, eyelids still resting shut as she enjoyed the warmth of his arms around her.

He smiled against her hair. Some things never changed.


	4. Trials

Trials

As they entered the Great Hall, it became clear that the tension over the arrival of the so-called Death Eaters had not dissipated. If anything, the opportunity for the news to spread had resulted in more distaste being directed toward them. The group sat, isolated at their table, talking in hushed tones. They were all there, except Malfoy. Hermione felt her interest noted, as the taciturn stare of Zabini fell on her once again. She twisted away, uncomfortable.

Breakfast was a necessary affair: yesterday had highlighted the need for her to receive Owl Post herself. It wouldn't do to be surprised again. Diligently, she sat with her friends, and took great care over her food. She cut an item into pieces, and scooped some onto her fork. She'd start a conversation. She would then discretely tip the food onto a different part of her plate. Take a large drink of water. Repeat. Most didn't notice, happy to indulge in her company. She seemed livelier than she had been in some time, and they weren't going to question that. Harry had an eye on her, as always, but that was nothing new. What was different, however, was Neville. Try as he might to tear his eyes away from her plate, he couldn't.

She felt tense, sure he was about to say something. A wandless, unspoken vanishing charm somewhat alleviated his concerns, but a delaying tactic was all it would be. She knew him well enough. Long gone was the body-bound first year. Before her panic reached its crescendo, three large owls swooped down on them. She was finally able to take a breath. Landing in front of herself, Ron and Harry, they offered a scroll from their talons. The trio tucked them in their robes. They could deal with that later. Harry took her arm, and excused them as they made their way to Transfiguration.

Early, they took seats close to the door. She had goosebumps in the poorly insulated classroom, and snuggled into Harry's robe quite comfortably when he pulled her toward him. They sat quietly, his hand holding her slight waist, the other stroking her soft curls. Warmth returned. Pulling apart slightly as people came in, they softly discussed their classmates.

NEWT Level Transfiguration was not for the faint-hearted, and there weren't many who had opted for the challenge. Anthony Goldstein walked in a few minutes before class was due to start, throwing a warm smile toward Hermione, taking a seat at the front. His hair had darkened somewhat, and he seemed unduly old. Justin took the seat next to him, the tan from his family's relocation over the past year not yet having faded. Malfoy arrived. Harry tensed, talking lowly about why Malfoy was interested in Transfiguration. He slunk toward the individual table nearest the back window of the classroom. Hermione supposed his cronies hasn't made the cut into NEWT Transfiguration. She was proven wrong moments later when Nott arrived, noted his friend sitting on his own and was ignored in his attempts to get his attention. Instead, he sat with Zabini, directly in front of them. Daphne Greengrass, she recalled from McGonagall's office, took the seat next to Nott, joined by an aloof Tracey Davis. This left one table. Ron, invariably, arrived late. Sliding into the table next to them, he shot them a sideways grin.

Conjuring animation was a complex topic, and Professor Dumbledore certainly had proficiency given the growling candelabra over their heads. Aberforth made for an interesting teacher: willing to explain, uninterested in classroom politics, and with a slightly wild look in his eyes that would quell even the most impetuous Slytherins. Not that they were causing problems. Indeed, there was an unsettling serenity to the group. It made her nervous. Malfoy hadn't said a word, nor shot even a dirty look in their direction.

The class allowed a significant practical portion, and soon devolved into the students trying to animate their teacups. Hermione's was waltzing around, without a single misstep. Harry's was hopping on one leg. Ron's had launched itself into the wall, only just avoiding the professor's head. Aberforth stared him down.

"Weasley, what are you starting here? I'll soon take it outside and show you what's what."

As red as his hair, Ron repaired his teacup and issued his profuse apologies. He shot a dirty look at Nott, who was openly laughing at him. With a swift wave of his wand, Zabini's teacup began chasing the now furious Ron, shooting painful sparks from its handle. With a pointed glare at the smirking man, Hermione redirected the teacup to attack him, until he succeeded in shattering it.

"I could've handled it, Hermione." Ron hissed at her, still out of breath from his sprint.

"I trust you'll be at practice today Ron? You're out of breath." Harry pointedly deescalated the conflict. A fallout was the last thing Hermione needed. It was only upon exiting the classroom that Ron finally perked up.

"'Mione, do you have some time before Potions?"

Harry shot her a concerned look, searching for a sign she wanted him to stay. Finding no uneasiness on her features, he left them to it. She knew how to find him if she needed him, and they had Potions in an hour. She walked alongside the broad redhead out toward the shores of the lake. Conjuring a blanket, they sat on the grassy hill overlooking the White Tomb. The air was crisp, and she tried to focus her attention on the tranquil water of the lake.

"It's been a while since we talked this Summer. You, me and Harry. I don't want this to be awkward, but I'd rather know that my chance has gone if you two are… you know, together. I know that Harry is spending nights with you, and I know that I fucked up leaving you two last year. But I do lo… like you a lot, and I think we could be happy. My mum loves you, and we said we'd stop and have another conversation in a few months, and I want to do that now. Before things get too deep with Harry. You're both my friends and…"

His words came thick and fast, and she felt ensnared by them. Choking on the crushing fog. Her abdomen was tight, as though hurtling toward an imminent crash. It was all she could do to wrap her arms around her knees in a protective embrace.

"… I don't want to give up on us. I don't want you to give up on us either, 'Mione."

He gripped her hand in his sweaty palm, pulling it back from her legs. She couldn't speak.

"If you want to keep going with Harry, if that's what you've decided on. That's okay too. I understand."

No response.

"It's also okay if you're not sure. Of anything. That must be a new one for you, eh, 'Mione?"

He finally brought his monologue to a close. Thunderous silence surrounded them. His laugh seemed harsh. She continued staring forward, mouth dry as she tried to push words out into the world.

"They… they say his tomb will always be the only grave at Hogwarts. It's like they think the world stopped when we left this place in Sixth Year."

She was talking about the bleak marble monolith, but also more than that, she was answering him too. Perhaps for the first time, she felt he recognised that.

"Neville was right. Sweeping the sacrifices of so many people under the rug is what this community did wrong last time. I had higher expectations of Hogwarts. I thought winning was going to be the hard part. After coming back here, I'm not so sure we did win. If the only monument to the war is the tomb of a man who caused so much unnecessary difficulty and loss, a man who died before it even really started. We lost so many people, we lost so much. That needs to mean something."

Ron was shocked at what was pouring out of her mouth. She hadn't spoken so certainly on, well, anything for a long time. Hermione, in that moment, was as viscerally alive as ever. He smiled, and hugged her into him.

"We'll make it mean something, we all will. For Fred, for you, for everyone. You just tell us what we need to do."

They sat for a while, before walking back up to the castle. Hermione had returned to near silence, and she didn't seem to want to come with him to get his textbook. Instead, she took the stairs toward the dungeons. Before the classroom, she took a detour into an unknown corridor.

_Tell them what to do._The words echoed around her head, spinning through dense murkiness. Lightheadedness threatened to overcome her. She knew what to do. Her nimble fingers returned to her neck, just below the collar. The skin was sore and thin, aching at even the most delicate touch. Her favourite spot. She held the tender flesh between her fingertips and twisted. In that moment, she felt connected again. The pain tethered her to the world. The fog faded, just enough to feel real again. That bond consumed her, allowed her to see in almost obscene clarity. Only one thing remained invisible to her, in the shadowed alcoves of the corridor. A figure stood, watching.

She found herself unable to sleep that night, pulled on her robes, and made her way out into the darkness of Hogwarts. Once she'd made her way up, she took out the scroll she'd tucked into the pocket that morning and read the details carefully. Lucius Malfoy. And so she began.

She precisely placed the sharp tip of her poplar wand to pull another, yet hopefully final, silver strand from her temple. Smoothly releasing the memory into the calm surface of the stone basin in front of her, she released a breath she hadn't known she'd been guarding. Sinking into the overstuffed, yet singularly uncomfortable armchair, she closed her eyes and fell asleep.

The process had remained the same, with each arrest warrant executed by the much diminished Auror's Office, there was a new demand for evidence to put before a Wizengamot Jury. The distinctive great horned owl would arrive, swooping down impatiently to deliver an envelope invariably sealed with the umber wax that verified a Ministry of Magic communication. The memories required would be listed, and initially, the golden trio would settle around a pensieve each evening to probe into themselves and retrieve their recollections together. The memories would then be retrieved from the pensieve, and provided to the remaining twenty members of the council. So frequent, were the trials, that it soon became overwhelming. The continual emotional weight of burrowing within the difficulties of the war had pushed Hermione, at least, to retrieve her own memories in the seclusion of the silent dawn.

Streams of autumnal sunlight woke her, and she peered past the ancient runes of the bowl to confirm that the waters had settled. They had, and she softly made her way back toward her dormitory. Neville's bag lay next to the armchair, unmoved. No one was awake yet, and for that she was grateful. Taking quiet steps toward her room, she opened the door and found Harry sitting up. He looked tired, perhaps even more so than the year they'd spend living in a tent. His bright green eyes still held an alarming contrast to his pale skin and dark hair, but more pressing were the soft mauve circles that surrounded them. They seemed to be an almost permanent feature now. She saw his eyes blink, adjusting to her presence. He pushed the pillow behind him down, and pulled the duvet he had circled around him free, opening up a spot for her.

She pulled her robe off, and climbed into bed beside him, her tense body softening slightly as he put an arm over her waist. Trusting he would keep the duvet between his arm and her body, she closed her eyes and allowed herself to breathe in his smell. In the mornings, his natural scent was intoxicating. He was vetiver musk, with a hint of the smokiness of broomstick grease. More than enough to lull her to a dreamless sleep.


	5. Cleanse

Cleanse

The first Quidditch match of the season was upon them. Lions and Snakes. The crackling tension of previous years seemed somewhat diminished. There was no presumed epic mid-air battle between two rivals. The secret return of much of the old Slytherin squad meant none had returned to the team as of yet. The air was crisp, and the grass still green, as Hermione made her way to the pitch. Regardless, the stands were full and she sat squashed between Neville and Seamus. Students had adorned themselves with the usual enchanted lion hats, scarves, and banners. It seemed an unfairly biased crowd, but there was a small set of determinedly loud Slytherins in the green and silver tower.

The commentary box was sharply circled by a gaggle of teachers, including the Headmistress who was sternly looking down at the commentator, Cormac McLaggen, as if to reproach him for his potential bias well in advance. The wizard pointed his wand to his throat, and the crowd's breath hitched. It was about to begin.

"Welcome Witches and Wizards, to the opening match of this year's Inter House Quidditch Cup. Gryffindor, led by Captain Harry Potter, returning to defend their victory two years ago. Slytherin, led by Janus Urquhart, seeking to redress their fourth place in the cup… yes, even after Hufflepuff."

The players were in the air at this point, Harry zooming high above the pitch as if to get a view of the players below, while Coote and Peakes preferred to joke around closer to the crowd, bats in hand. In terms of the opposition, Graham Pritchard was already closely guarding the hoops, as if unwilling to trust that the quaffle hadn't yet been released. The bludgers were unbuckled, rocketing into the air.

"Take your positions, players."

Moments later, the quaffle was thrown and was immediately seized by Ginny. Narrowly avoiding a well-aimed bludger backbeat from Baddock, it quickly became 10-0 after Demelza knocked it through the lower hoop.

"Robbins scores! 10-0 to Gryffindor, with the snitch now released. Potter and Bletchley marking one another now… Quaffle with Astoria Greengrass, her first appearance for Slytherin. And no! Slipped through her fingers… It's Thomas! It's Thomas! It's 20-0!"

The crowd erupted around Hermione. Harry zoomed past the stand, as close as he dared, shooting her a joyful wink. The game was dynamic, and she hadn't seen such joy etched onto her friend's face for years. He was a picture of brightness, even as a blur sweeping past. She cheered, she shouted. Harry was happy, and the game had only just begun.

Agile and aggressive, Peaks and Coote caused a not insignificant bludger injury to Pritchard as they swept him out of the path of yet another incoming quaffle, this time from Ginny. Dazed, the keeper held on to his broom, only to see the ball soar through the hoops above him. Gryffindor were dominating, despite the deft shots from Vaisey. Ron was growing more animated as a chorus of 'Weasley is our King' swept the stadium.

"Struggling keeper Weasley being supported by the crowd there, many hoping he won't let the team down again this season."

The crinkle of a pumpkin juice can smashing off McLaggen's head filled the stadium, and the volume of the song only increased in response. His high forehead wrinkled in annoyance, looking to McGonagall for some comeback. She successfully avoided his eyes. The game continued. Harry, sweeping the stadium, tailed by Bletchley hadn't yet seen much action.

"A poorly executed Speelman Steal there, by Vaisey and Urquhart, but they've won the quaffle nonetheless. Can Weasley hold his nerve? No! It's 30-10. Quaffle to Robins."

Harry made an abrupt upward loop and rapidly began an almost vertical approach toward the ground. Bletchley was a broom behind him, as yet unsure of what Harry had potentially spotted. Hermione held her breath as he reached crowd height and continued, at an intense speed and still accelerating. If he didn't pull up soon, he'd crash, but Bletchley was now at his tail. Still hurtling toward the ground, Harry's hand reached out and just beyond it was a glittering winged ball. Centimetres from Earth, a bludger swept along the hairs of his neck as he stretched out to grasp the snitch, clattering into Bletchley who was viciously dragged along the pitch. Harry pulled up in an upward spiral, snitch in hand, and hovered victoriously by the Gryffindor stand. Their eyes caught as the crowd exploded.

"Gryffindor wins! Potter has the snitch! 180-10 to Gryffindor. An explosive start to the season, daring moves from the Gryffindor seeker, and Bletchley now receiving medical attention."

The roaring crowd, in that moment, was infinite. The baying students held a furious beat, jerking her heart along in a rhythm she couldn't maintain. She could feel the hammering organ tearing through her chest, she was sure of it. The mob was coming closer, crushing her. Any minute now. She stepped onto the stairs, practically tumbling down into the ramparts. She crossed her arms, desperately digging her fingernails in. Not enough. Nowhere close. Beat. Beat. Beat. Jacket off. Now. Finally, she was able to feel. Her skin glowed white. Blood beading up. Crimson. She pressed harder, on her knees now surrounded by dark, damp wood. Pain burning through the noise. A gentle pulse of crimson had begun. Harder. Better. A bit. Just a bit, as the droplets began to trickle down her arm. She could breathe, heart slowing. She could feel herself again. She pulled her hoodie back on.

Something wasn't right. She felt connected, alive, yes. Alert, on edge too. Her uneasiness was directed toward her surroundings. The air wasn't quite lucid enough. It had a presence to it, like something hidden. She drew her wand.

"Homenum Revelio."

Her wand arm tensed. Someone was there. She barely heard a masculine "Finite Incantatum" above the pulsing blood rushing around her body. A man materialised in front of her, near the small window facing out toward the pitch. Tall. Gaunt. Blonde. Malfoy. She kept her wand pointed at him. He looked drained, even in the darkness that engulfed them. His hard grey eyes were on her. She looked forward, to his chest, while his gaze concentrated on her slender arms. Nothing was said, but she felt a cool wave of air on her wrists. Her stare broke, her jacket was immaculate again, no trace of blood. When she looked up again, there was no trace of him either. Clearly, he didn't want to risk infection. Regardless, he was gone.

She made her way down to the pitch, toward the Gryffindor changing rooms, unable to shake her uneasiness at what had just occurred. A knock and call to enter later, she was engulfed in a sweaty hug from Ron. Breaking free, she raised an eyebrow at him.

"We won!" He was excited. "I know! I know I stink. But we won!"

She couldn't help but beam back at him. Despite her misgivings about the curious normality of life now, she wouldn't take a carefree moment from her friends. Harry emerged from the shower, and pulled her tightly against his still damp chest. He threw a shirt on, and with promises to join them in the Common Room soon, took her hand and led her back out toward the pitch.

"You disappeared very quickly. Everything ok?"

She considered the man in front of her. He hadn't stopped grinning since he'd caught the snitch, and the fire inside him was twinkling brightly behind his eyes. Happy. No. He didn't need to know about that peculiar meeting in the stands. They lay in the sand under the Gryffindor hoops, looking up to the sky.

"I was so scared you were going to hit the ground! But you did it, as always. Even I can tell that you're not a normal quidditch player, Harry."

Looking at his face, it was clear he wasn't fully present. Instead, he was… well, back up there. Soaring through the skies, hunting the snitch. Ever since he'd first climbed on a broom to rescue Neville's rememberall, it had seemed almost more natural than walking. His interest had never waned, and no matter how many horrific injuries he accrued, he always got back on his Firebolt.

"I could do that for my entire life, you know, and it'd never get old. It's the best feeling in the world for me. Nothing else matters in the sky. I know it sounds selfish, but the air whistling past and the crowd screaming your name – there's something about that. It's never interested me, outside of this. I promise I'm not letting the whole hero thing go to my head…" Her small hand gripped his, knowing him well enough. "But there is a special kind of magic when I'm on a broom. I only have a year left to enjoy it, and it's been a family to me, even back then with Oliver and the twins. Quidditch is my home, and I don't have much time left with that."

It occurred to her, as Harry parted ways to go celebrate in the Gryffindor Common Room, that he really did view his family as a finite concept. It wasn't as if he'd seen much evidence to the contrary, after all. Harry Potter, a man who found a home in those changing rooms, on that broom, in the sky. After everything, he had a few months to revel in it and he might never hear that crowd again. He'd given too much to lose any more, she determined. Now in her rooms, she glanced at the clock. Two hours until the Slug Club. Sighing, she walked to the bathroom.

With a sharp wave of her wand, the mirror's reflective surface turned to a flawless matte carbon. She turned to the taps, and ran a glorious stream of molten eucalyptus and mint bubbles into the enamel bathtub. As the bath ran, she retrieved a thick volume on magical architecture and a glass of her favourite lemon squash. Finally, the bath was ready. She took her clothes off, careful not to look, and quickly settled herself into the scalding depths. The delicious burn left a pleasing tingle on her limbs, and she could feel the developing sting on her neck and arms. The bubbles were dense and plentiful, enough to shield her body.

She spent a slow hour enjoying the book, a previously unexplored topic for her, wanting to take in every detail. After which, she sank deeper into the bath and washed her soft curls, luxuriating in a mask of generous conditioner as she cleansed her body. Once she felt thoroughly relaxed, she drained the bath and pulled on her underwear, and a thin pair of sheer tights. She looked at her dress. It was different to what she used to wear, but the high neck and crimson lace sleeves were indispensable to her. It wouldn't do to be noticed. It hugged her body, fabric clinging to the curve of her hip bone, the angular ribs, holding her soft breasts strictly in place.

Harry would be back soon, she knew. She tucked the book back into the shelf, meticulously placing it where the dust lines lay. Finally, she restored the mirror and took her time to apply a layer of creamy foundation. She felt stronger, as she softly applied subtle makeup, finishing with a brush of nude lipstick. Just as she did so, voices floated through from the common room. Neville and Harry. He was here. She took a deep breath, allowed herself a final tug at the tight fabric that held her body and walked out.

"Hermione, you look beautiful," said Neville, eyes scrutinising her body.

She tried not to turn and run. Harry's bright green eyes took her in. She was breathtaking. Sensing her discomfort, he offered her an arm and said goodbye to Neville.

"He's right you know. You are, as always, exquisite. I don't know how you do it. Even if you are the tiniest witch I know, what there is of you is perfect. Tonight won't be so bad either, I'll hex anyone who bothers you. No more running away from bloody Cormac."

They walked leisurely toward Slughorn's quarters, her slight arm tucked into his, desperately trying to hold on to the comfort of his words. He was speaking his truth, she knew. That was about as far as she could go, taking a deep breath as he knocked on the door.

Slughorn welcomed them charismatically as always, congratulating Harry on his spectacular win earlier that day, before they took their seats. Hermione tucked herself between Slughorn and Harry, and began some light chatter with Melinda Bobbin. Cormac was thankfully distracted, chatting with the teacher about his Uncle Tiberius' recent trip to Ilvermorny. Blaise Zabini arrived, a bottle of bochet mead in hand and took the seat opposite Hermione. Last to arrive was Ginny, who shot them a polite smile before sitting beside Cormac.

"Well, now we're all here, we can open our first Slug Club dinner of the year! Let's raise a glass to the return of a much missed institution!"

The group clinked glasses, Hermione avoiding the amused smirk Harry shot her. They spent a few moments relaxing with their wine, a glossy Malbec. Ginny was keenly discussing the match in front of Zabini, the sound thrashing of Slytherin being too good a prize to dismiss. Harry was drawn into the conversation, as Cormac mentioned that Alberic Fawley was at the match, the owner of Puddlemere United. Hermione, meanwhile, was keenly discussing the alchemy of transmutation with Professor Slughorn, only distracted as their plates were filled with a medium-rare fillet wrapped in pastry and a delicate blend of local mushrooms.

Feeling Harry's eyes on her again, she remarked on how delicious the food was, before engaging the group on the current legislation emerging from the Ministry with regard to werewolf discrimination. Zabini chipped in to question the moral fortitude of werewolves, while Ginny seemed bored by the topic altogether. The restricted permission to brew Wolfsbane had become a more openly contentious issue in recent years, but still little progress had been made, with the registry still legally mandated. As Harry regaled Hermione's howl in the Forbidden Forest many years ago, she began to gingerly cut her food.

As soon as the opportunity presented, she pointedly reminded Harry that she'd saved his life with that howl. Professor Lupin had taught every student at the table, and despite misgivings about his lycanthropy, had been a popular professor. She turned the conversation toward the changing Defence against the Dark Arts curriculum over the years, before Harry could dwell on the loss of Remus. As Slughorn made his own suggestions, she turned her attention back to the waiting food, and saw that the pile seemed to have reduced somewhat. A blush reddened her cheeks. Surely she hadn't been talking with her mouth full? No. She wouldn't. She'd remember doing that. She cut some dauphinoise into cubes, quietly grateful when Zabini asked what she thought of the inclusion of Inferius in the course, given Charms were ordinarily best placed to repel them. As she responded, the corner of her eye saw a slightly bulged portion of potatoes on Harry's plate. Sure enough, when she looked down, the portion she had cut was gone.

So the pattern continued. She'd cut her food as someone spoke, then she would take her wine glass in her hands, or begin to contribute to the conversation once more. By the time her attention returned to her plate, the food was gone. Confident now, that she hadn't disgraced herself with bad manners, she wondered if Harry was taking her food. She was grateful to him, of course, but surprised. The 'issue' had remained unspoken between them and she'd like to keep it that way. It was only during dessert, when Ginny asked a thinly veiled question about the Head Girl living arrangements, that she noticed a twitch of Zabini's mouth, and sensed the collapse of her soufflé. A quick sideward glance revealed the molten core appearing in Harry's half eaten dish.

As the food disappeared, and they moved to the armchair, settling back with a glass of sweet mead, Zabini caught her eye. There was no kindness there, no shared connection of what he had done for her, no clear reason why. Instead, he quirked an eyebrow, and repeated his earlier question.

"So, Granger. Tell us about the third floor corridor."

As Harry choked on his drink, Hermione blushed. Yet she acquiesced to his demand, and let the group in on the details of their first year adventure. Slughorn seemed to regard her with a new respect after realising she had defeated Severus Snape's potions puzzle, even as a first year. Zabini's face remained passive, but she had given him his answer. Finally, it became time for the group to disperse, Slughorn shaking Hermione's hand rather thoroughly.

Harry clasped her small hand in his, strolling back to her rooms in a comfortable silence, more than ready for bed. Once there, she took to the bathroom to brush her teeth and finally remove the tight dress. She quickly replaced the garment with her comfortable long trousers and t-shirt. Groaning, full from what he knew was a questionably large helping of beef wellington and soufflé, Harry relaxed into the comfort of their bed. He had his suspicions about how he'd received so much, but with his appetite sated and Hermione emerging from dinner relatively untraumatised, he was content to let it go. As she climbed into bed, he pulled her close to him, holding her forearm in his large palm. The slight roughness of her scars was absorbed in his quidditch worn hands, he felt only her as they fell into a welcome slumber.

Later that night, having climbed out of his embrace for a few moments, she looked back at the bed. Under the garnet red sheet, Harry looked uncharacteristically serene. The dark circles that had for so long adorned his eyes were slightly faded, and his eyelids were still and easy. Even his hair lay smoothly over his scar. Quidditch had really done him a world of good. The soft moonlight blinked through the gap in the curtains, giving her adequate light to work through her purple beaded bag. It seemed to be an endless cycle of books and potions, the occasional parchment or quill, until she felt her fingertips brush against dusty metal. At last. She tugged it out, and lightly blew the dust from its surface. A glint of brightness, and she tucked the ornate brass key into the inside pocket of her robes.

A trip to the library, tomorrow, was well overdue.


	6. Leave

Leave

It had been hard to convince Harry and Ron to enjoy Hogsmede without her, but after threatening them with a day in the library, they had relented. After a toasty at her favourite table, Hermione ventured out toward Hogsmede. The first weekend of the year had been more than welcome to the older students, a chance to escape the curious ordinariness of Hogwarts, even if it were for just a day. Walking slowly, being sure that no one was watching, she stepped behind a wall just after the station and took a deep breath. No turning back now.

She apparated into the grounds of St Jerome's Church, standing for a moment in the still air by the neatly trimmed spruce trees. The path was well-maintained too, leading toward the taupe arch of the solid door. She hadn't come for the service however, and strode against the delicate tide of elderly parishioners toward the village. The lane was narrow, and the few shops sprinkled along the way were closed. Muggle Sundays. The village square, too, was unspoilt. Dismissing the idea of visiting the memorial again, she turned off down a quiet road: thatched cottages, apple trees, laughter and a trace of a lovingly cooked roast.

Almost there. It was not as she remembered. A crisp autumn sun in the air, a serene stillness. No snow. No darkness. No snake. It was better. Safe. Home, maybe. She turned her attention to the derelict cottage. The stone perimeter wall was in dire need of repointing, running her fingers along the joints sprinkling dust confetti along the path. The wooden gate was darkened to see and spongy to touch. She pushed the gate open, and sensed no resistance. No wards left. Lots to do, then. The narrow path was still in reasonable condition, with some weeds having wrangled their way through the gaps. The garden was another story. Overgrown with the dead and dying, it was a forest of sharp branches looming over an undergrowth of wildflowers. Without some structural spells, it wouldn't be safe to enter the cottage itself. The rooftop had long since given way, and the harsh winter had done it no further favours. The chimney stack seemed solid, but the exposed jutting beams of the collapsing walls of seemed weak. Only one of the original upper windows remained, in strikingly dark lead. The rest had long since been lost to the elements, replaced by the twisted spread of ivy.

First. Security. She checked that no one was hiding there, despite how safe she felt, it wouldn't do to let someone in on the secret. She felt herself relax into her wand, she was alone. Protective enchantments: a Fidelus Charm, a Caterwauling Charm, a Muggle Repelling Charm. Masking spell, perhaps. Anti-Disapparation too. Yes, lots to do.

"Salvio Hexia. Protego Horriblus. Repello Inimicum. Cave Inimicum. Fiano Duri."

Her lungs tightened for a moment and the air was noiseless as the charms settled in. Harry's home was now one of the safest buildings in Britain, she smiled to herself. Now, what to do about the building itself? She cast an appraising eye over the cottage, and recalled what she had learnt that weekend. She began by removing as much of the ivy as possible, to ensure she had a full understanding of the issues she would encounter. Much more of the wall was cracked than she had realised, and she sought to repair that immediately. Several hardening charms later, the walls seemed robust to the weight of the property.

Wand out, she opened the front door to Potter's Cottage. To her surprise, while the entire house was terribly damp – it was not empty. There was a faded sofa, torn at the arms. She sensed a vague recognition of the fabric. Bookshelves, with more dust than even the worst of Grimmauld Place. Certain tomes were missing, gaps… strange. The floor was hardwood, and she looped her wand in smooth waves drying and resetting the antique boards. Trying something new, she applied a thin layer of varnish and a hardening spell. Uneven, but not bad. She never had mastered domestic spells. Time to seal the roof. Exiting the cottage for the final time, she cast a seal over the property. It was a start at least. The garden would have to wait for next time. Resisting the urge to sit down, her magic more than a little tired, she closed the gate behind her and apparated back to Hogsmede.

With a crack, she found herself at the lookout over the Shrieking Shack, not wanting the other students to know the Head Girl was misusing a Hogsmede weekend. She briskly walked toward the main town, keen not to keep Neville waiting. The High Street was almost overwhelmed with students, eagerly comparing their latest Zonko's purchases or blowing fantastical bubbles courtesy of Honeyduke's restock of Drooble's. As she entered the Three Broomsticks, the loud buzz of students hit her.

Spotting a wave from a far-off alcove, she made her way through the crowd and took a seat opposite Neville. He looked exhausted, but raised a warm smile for her. She shrugged off her coat, and took in the parchment catalogue he had been browsing. Dogweed and Deathcap. Perfect. She was pleased to have a reason to ask for Neville's expertise, listening to him speak on Herbology was inspiring. As he sipped his butterbeer, she began talking.

"I need to ask you to keep something between us, if that's okay?" Upon his curious nod, she continued. "I need some advice. On plants for the outside of a wizarding house. Nothing too much, easy to maintain, a family home. No petunias, for sure, I'm thinking more a tree, and lawn."

She was unsure, and felt relief when he sat forward excitedly and opened the catalogue. Over the next half hour, he pointed out the best options. A small flowerbed of medicinal plants: the burning bush, aloe vera, wormwood, aconite. A wiggentree. He excitedly explained it's defensive properties, and Hermione couldn't help but be impressed.

"It's… it's for Harry. A garden. Will lilies grow? Or is that too difficult"

Neville looked at her, taking her words in. He took her hand in his and smiled.

"Hermione, that's a beautiful idea. It's for Harry, then? He is going to love this. There's a charm, to mature lilies. I'll show you and it'll help strengthen them. In the meantime, your secret's safe with me."

He passed her the catalogue ordering form, and conversation turned to the antics of the students over the course of the day. His tiredness, it seemed, was well earned. She understood why the students were being more wild than usual. Decompression. She supposed that would be difficult to explain to the wizarding world… their loss. _Our loss_, she corrected.

"Why don't we order something to eat? I don't know about you, but policing this lot has made me hungry… I caught Romilda Vane, well, with her mouth round Sturgis Harper. Disgusting."

Hermione gave an exaggerated shiver, "I think that actually just put me off dinner, Neville. Where on earth were they doing that?"

She took a deep breath, trying to appear interested in the bizarre public sex rituals of the students. She hoped beyond anything that he would let it go. She should have met him at the greenhouses another day, she knew it. Thankful he was talking for the both of them, she curled her thumb into her hand and dug the nail in. _Get it together, Hermione._ Difficult, as she saw him eyeing the menu again, and felt her whole body clench. He fingered it lightly, perusing the options and asking her opinion on occasion. She retained her well-practiced non-committal and uninterested self. Why was he doing this? She'd already said no. It was suffocating.

"Would you pick at a smoked chicken platter, if I order it? It comes with thick cut chips? Sounds pretty good."

She knew the concern in his hazel eyes without even looking at him. She knew his brow would be furrowed. She knew the conversation he wanted to have was just beyond the tip of his tongue. She also knew she couldn't do this. Bathroom. Yes. Girls Bathroom. Safe. She turned and fled as calmly as she could toward the back of the inn, past the throngs of laughing students. Everything seemed so far away. Disconnected.

The bathroom was empty. Thank Merlin for small mercies. Locking the door, she turned on the cold tap furthest from the outside world, splashing her face. She could still hear the sound from the other side of the door. She cast a muffling charm, she needed a moment. Just a moment. She wouldn't do any more than that. She brushed some more cool water on her neck, and turned away from the sink. The door. Time to go back. Yet, of course, her fingers grasped her ribs through the thin material of her blouse just moments later. They protruded, yes, but not by much. Squeeze. No chicken. Squeeze harder. No chips. Sharp nails gripped her bones. Eyes crushed close, she felt it. Pain and light. Clarity, for just a moment. Welcome fucking clarity.

"I always had my suspicions about you. Unbutton your blouse."

Zabini. She couldn't bring herself to look at him. She hadn't heard him come in.

"Now."

Eyes open now, but looking downward, she deftly unbuttoned her collar, sufficient to reveal the bruises hidden beneath. He was standing close to her now, closer than she had ever wanted him. If possible, he edged even closer.

"Tell me why you enjoy the pain."

She couldn't look. His breath was warm on her forehead, and she became excruciatingly aware of how slight she was next to him. He was insisting on an answer, and before she could contemplate further, it all came tumbling out.

"I feel like I can't breathe, like I'm in water. I can't think. I can't make decisions. Not like myself. It helps… it helps me take back control."

He put his fingers to her neck, and she was transfixed. He had long, elegant fingers with immaculately glossy almond shaped nails. He seemed dexterous, more so than her. She couldn't take her eyes away, as he took her soft skin between his fingertips, and viciously twisted it. Pain. Hot pain. He pulled further.

"Look at me," he commanded.

Their eyes met; his impassive, hers bewildered. He tightened his grip, digging his nails into her delicate neck. Her lip started to waver, and she felt a wave of heat in her eyes. Prickling tears forming. His mouth was just a millimetre from her ear now.

"Potter can't give this to you."

Like lightening, she was crushed up against the wall. His dominating strength and height overwhelmed her, and the harsh pinch had been replaced by a tight hand around her neck. His grip was unyielding, and she no longer felt control. Her eyes became hooded as she gasped ragged breaths.

Air. As she opened her eyes, her body almost overcome with the breaths she was suddenly able to take, she saw Zabini on the floor. His back collar had torn, from the force with which he'd been ripped away. His once aquiline nose was bloodied and twisted, and standing over him was a shaking arm with a wand newly drawn. She looked up further, and saw the sharp jaw and sparkling grey eyes of Malfoy. He cast an appraising look over her, never fully taking his eyes away from the bleeding man on the floor.

"Leave."

Rooted to the spot, she took a quivering breath. Questions. Lots of them. Their eyes connected, for just a moment. So brief it was deniable.

"Leave, Granger."

She didn't look back.


	7. Knuckles

Knuckles

She had not noticed Harry return back, mind hurtling through the events of that afternoon. He found her curled up in the window seat, shivering in a camisole and shorts. So small, she was barely visible behind the curtain. Her eyes were dark and deep, and her nose slightly reddened. Long, thin bruises on her throat. Swallowing the wave of anger that overcame him, breathing slowly, he pulled the curtain back and slipped in behind her. Lifting her onto his lap with ease, he held her close to him. She was ice cold. His body encircled hers, providing a much-needed weight to bring her back to Earth. It was comfortable, his breath on her forehead as she snuggled into his broad chest.

"I know something happened today. Neville returned your jacket to me. I'm not going to ask about it right now, but I am going to take care of you. I'd like to take you to bed, but if there are injuries I can't see, I need you to tell me."

When no answer was forthcoming other than a slight wriggle against him, he took her in his arms and carried her to bed. He took a moment to throw off his clothes, and cast a warming charm on the duvet. Bringing the covers over them, this time not quite allowing for the duvet to lay between them, he lifted her chin toward him. He wanted her to be close. She looked every inch the distraught little girl he'd known in front of the troll all those years ago. He would take great joy destroying whoever had done this to his 'Mione. She had taken hours to fall asleep, and he could no longer avoid just how small she was in his arms. She wasn't getting better, time was not fixing this.

He was unsuccessful in convincing her of anything other than a glass of juice at breakfast the next morning. Neville had been good enough not to mention her rapid disappearance from the Three Broomsticks the previous day, and the glamours she had placed over her now blackened neck were sufficient to avoid further concern. As they made their way to Charms, Ron caught up with them.

"Have you heard about Zabini?" Ron exclaimed, surprising both by the turn in conversation. A tight noose of panic seized Hermione's stomach. She was sure he knew. "He's in the hospital wing, completely out of it apparently… they found him in Hogsmede last night with his hands and fingers broken. Apparently, Pomfrey is out of Skele-Gro."

Broken hands? Hermione felt like she was suffocating. The day was a blur: the school was ablaze with the gossip of the attack. Unlike the news of Katie Bell, however, she hadn't heard a lick of sympathy. She had felt the keenness of Harry's eyes on her all day. Indeed, by the time he fell asleep that evening, she thought she might crumble from the weight of it all.

She took Harry's invisibility cloak, threw it over herself, and exited into the gloom of the castle. The hospital wing was dark, the heavy windows allowing only a trickle of moonlight through. The beds were empty, and there was no sign of Madam Pomfrey. A single privacy screen lay extended toward the back of the ward. Nervously, she stepped toward it. Step, after step. Behind the curtain, all was not what she expected. Zabini was clearly in a state of semi-consciousness, murmuring lightly and his strong features held a thin sheen of sweat.

She was suddenly aware of a presence behind her. Her head snapping back, she did not see Madam Pomfrey curious as to why Hermione Granger would be visiting a Slytherin in hospital, but rather the lean body and dark eyes of Malfoy. Again. He retained a respectful distance, but she stepped forward behind the curtains to allow him in. The last thing she needed was to be found here, with them. She turned her eyes back to Zabini. His eyelids sat a little higher now, and his pupils were wide. Vulnerable, almost. She didn't dare step within his reach.

"He can't move." Malfoy's voice was clear and low, and she looked at him. His lips were straight set, emotionless and hardened. "He's immobilised."

Immobilisation. Precisely what had happened to Zabini? As if understanding her confusion, he looked down at his own wand. Realisation dawned on Hermione. This was no medical treatment, more a precaution of Malfoy's design. Her presence had been expected. She kept her distance regardless. None of this was making very much sense.

As Hermione tried to comprehend the situation, Malfoy took her in. She had changed since Malfoy Manor. She had been thin then, but now she was bordering on emaciated. Even now, in her long pyjamas, he could see that her arms were frail: no difference between her brachium and forearm. He saw her right hand clutching her wand. It was bony, veins blue and noticeable. He doubted she could punch him like she had a few years ago, not now. She'd probably do more damage to herself than to him. Her clavicle, which he remembered all too well from the Yule Ball having heard Pansy bitch about it for far too long, now had the trace of a twin beneath her shirt. The bruises on her neck. They were jets of onyx on her pale skin. He looked up at her face, and noticed she had caught him staring.

"You haven't healed your neck."

It was true. She hadn't. She'd run out of bruise salve over the summer, and had dared hope she wouldn't need it again. Foolish, really. As was this entire situation. They stood on opposite sides of Zabini's bed now, facing one another. He brought his wand up to her throat. She couldn't read him. His eyes were no longer in the narrow slits she had become accustomed to. They were open, but solemn and cautious. No smirking arrogance. No white hot anger. His wand remained. She should shield herself. Yes. Shield. Shield herself now. She didn't.

"Cicatro," he murmured, teasing the tip along her neck, his eyes finally off hers as he paid close attention to the path of his spell.

Neither of them acknowledged that her bruises were now just a faded pink glow. Their eyes met again, fleetingly, until a particularly sharp grunt from Zabini tore her attention away. Immobilised. He was aware of what was going on around him. She glanced toward his hands. Ron had been right, not only were his hands broken, but every finger snapped and displaced. She looked up at Malfoy once again, his expression had not changed. Deadpan.

"You threw him on the floor."

"He tore at your neck."

"You broke his hands."

"He throttled you."

Silence. He clearly did not feel any remorse for his actions. If anything, he seemed as though he expected praise for his restraint.

"He took food from you."

She had no idea how he could possibly know that. He apparently did not understand the context either. She stood, motionless, unsure of what to say. Any possible words she could utter were effectively removed as he looked down at Zabini, who released a high-pitched whimper. Malfoy's large hands glided down Zabini's frame, an inch away from touching him, followed only by the immobilised man's straining eyes.

A piercing scream, almost a yowl, it was animalistic. Malfoy did not relent. His muscular power evident as he roughly squeezed each knuckle out of place in turn, pausing to crush the bone. Zabini's cries were ear-splitting now. She was frozen, as though immobilised too. She could not watch, and instead allowed Malfoy's eyes to bore into her. Right until he moved to reach for Zabini's right hand.

A booming creak. The doors. Pomfrey. In a second, she was next to Malfoy, and threw the cloak over the two of them. Pomfrey rounded the corner and took a look at the sweating, crying mess that was Blaise Zabini. He remained immobilised, and the matronly woman had clearly sensed something was different. Hermione grasped Malfoy's arm and steered him as quietly as possible away from the bed. The mediwitch knew all was not well with her patient, and was casting diagnostic spells. They needed to leave. The hospital wing doors, however, were shut. Heavy oak creaking doors that would make an almighty noise. They were trapped. Pomfrey stepped out from the curtain, and after a few moments moved to leave. They would have seconds. Malfoy's firm grip on her waist pulled her toward him. Pomfrey practically brushed past them, and Hermione realised that it was only their proximity that had saved them. The mediwitch opened the door, and they stepped into the frame, only to be interrupted by another groan from Zabini.

Madam Pomfrey paused, in the doorway, millimetres from them. Proximity. She was acutely aware of how close she was to Malfoy. Pulled against him, and held in place by arms stronger than she had realised. Her face was buried in his chest, keeping as tight as possible to the wall. He was warm to the touch, and she could practically feel the blood hammering through his body. Or perhaps that was hers. He pulled the cloak tight to them, and she could feel the definite outline of his crotch on her stomach. Their legs were almost intertwined, her feet between his. Anything to reduce the space they took up. They could not be caught.

Deciding further investigation was warranted, the nurse stepped back into the ward. Hardly daring to breathe, they stepped through the door before it slammed shut. They didn't dare separate until the heavy echo died down. Perhaps a second more. She took a deep breath, desperate for air, and found her senses overwhelmed with a rich frankincense, and the heady relief they shared. Stepping apart, neither said a word. She pulled the cloak from them, and turned to walk to the stairs. Once again, she didn't look back. She didn't want to know what she would see.

Hermione found herself entering the Headmaster's office once more. The portraits were silent as she entered, most of the inhabitants having long since fallen asleep. Only one was awake, the sharp lines of his face impassive as she took a seat in front of the wall. His eyes glinted critically as she stared, wishing she had worked out how to start this conversation before her rash visit to this office. Softly, careful not to wake the others, Hermione finally spoke.

"Professor Snape. I'm sorry for the late hour, but I was hoping to ask you some questions."

A single sharp eyebrow raised, and his silky baritone replied. "It seems, Miss Granger, that you have finally found a way to ensnare me such that I cannot avoid them."

Even in death, he was rather foul. She continued, choosing to disregard the less than welcome reception he had provided.

"I would like to know about Draco Malfoy."

A pause. Snape regarded her curiously. Six years of torment, he knew, had hurt her. He'd heard the laughter of his students as they regaled tales of her hot tears. The tooth growing incident. The Mudblood incident, with the Quidditch team. He had not cared, particularly. She was impertinent, though not as a result of her blood. He had never sensed much curiosity from her about the backgrounds of her bullies. Perhaps the only thing she hadn't been inquisitive about. Yet, her she was, curiously asking about her tormentor.

"That is rather imprecise. What are you asking of me? And to that end, why would I choose to share any such information with you? We are not talking about my potions stores, Miss Granger, you do not get to dip in as you please."

She had the graciousness to attain a slight blush. He was never going to move on from what were, really, rather minor thefts. It was also true that she had no real direction to her question. She wanted to know about him. She wanted to understand. In truth, she didn't know where to begin. He was a tyrant, that's all she had been to her for a long time. Even where she had hoped for his innocence, she had been wrong. He was a bully. He was a Death Eater. He was a coward.

"Malfoy is behaving oddly. He has done some things that may get him into trouble. He's also done some things, to me, that are different to what I would expect. As his Godfather, and his vowed protector, you know him and care for him. I'm not sure what I'm asking, that's true. I want to know him, to understand why he might be behaving as he is. If he is in trouble again, it would be wise to know."

He knew, in that moment, that she had seen his memories. He coveted nothing more than to expel her from the office into a year of Filch led detentions. Potter. Bloody Potter, involving others in what was a private matter. Yet he remained, though angry. He was Draco's godfather, and he was curious as to why she suddenly held such an apparent interest in the boy. Granger, while frustrating, rarely asked questions for no reason. Despite what he had frequently said in class. As for doing things to her, that was unexpected, though he noted the faded bruises on her neck. She seemed reticent to share, but that would certainly be a price she would pay for this unsolicited disturbance.

"Very well."


	8. Patterns

Patterns

"What happened to him after… after…" Hermione bit her lip slightly as she faltered for the first time, not quite sure how to term it.

Snape absorbed her hesitance with interest. He could not remember ever seeing Miss Granger hesitate. Clearly, she had not yet come to terms with the scar on her arm, or the other injuries inflicted by Lestrange. A thought-provoking state of affairs, to say the least. From bitter personal experience, he knew that her inability to voice the event was certainly a sign of ongoing distress, and he briefly pondered how she was dealing with it.

"After your escape from Malfoy Manor, the Dark Lord arrived and tortured those that had allowed your departure. This included Draco, who had failed to identify Potter when it was plainly obvious that he was able to do so. Lucius was allowed a wand for a short time, in order for him to punish his son. There was no mercy given, he had disgraced his father."

The matter of fact nature of his delivery struck Hermione. She knew that Voldemort's legilimency would have revealed all he needed to know about Mr. Malfoy's delay in summoning him. Yet, the man had blamed his only child? Given what she had learned today, what Malfoy had done that evening was of no surprise in terms of the violence. She wasn't sure what was worse, the brutality inflicted by his father, or that of the ideology he had to fight for. _Had_ to fight for. Having heard the tales of his upbringing, she knew he had little choice in the matter. What continued to make no sense, however, was why he had targeted someone that had harmed her, and was ostensibly a close friend of his.

As she thought, Snape considered how best to broach her for information on what precisely Draco had done. She had not touched the light marks on her neck, but it felt almost unnatural. She was clearly keen to give nothing away. He could simply enter her mind, but she would know – and he suspected she was better at occlumency than Potter. Other underhand tactics were open to him, but how would she respond? She could simply walk out of the office and disappear, leaving him frustrated. There was only one thing for it.

"Miss Granger, it may help us if you were to elaborate precisely on what Draco has done."

Her large eyes grew rounder, and the infuriating brightness there darkened a little. Apparently, she had not calculated that he would want something in exchange for this tête-à-tête. Her innocence was intolerable. He saw her glance around, at the portraits, some of whom were now stirring somewhat with the commotion. Clearly, whatever she had to say was sensitive enough that she did not wish to be overheard.

"Do you have a portrait elsewhere, Professor Snape?"

"Spinner's End." He raised a sardonic eyebrow as she flustered, "Do not attempt to tell me that you have no means by which to exit this castle. We both know you have a proclivity for rule breaking, no matter how much you may wish to deny it. Meet me there. After all, you have the key."

And that was how Hermione Granger found herself on an empty northern street at midnight, in pyjamas, clutching the bronze key to Severus Snape's semi-detached house. The door clicked open obediently, and she took a deep breath before entering. As if life could not get any stranger, she heard a deep voice emerge from the second room off the hallway, calling her name. How peculiarly domestic. If there was one thing she could be sure of, it was that there would be no possible way to explain this all to Harry.

The sitting room was claustrophobic, though lacked the air of neglect she had felt in the hallway. The walls lined entirely in books, most bound in aged leather. There was a threadbare sofa, a rickety table, and a candle filled ceiling lamp that she ignited with a silent wave of her wand. The final bit of furniture was an old armchair sat close to the impatient portrait of Snape, in precisely the same faded patterned fabric as the sofa she had seen just yesterday at the Potter's Cottage. With a raised eyebrow that could rival his own, Hermione sat down on the overstuffed chair.

"What a familiar armchair, Professor Snape. It's such a shame it doesn't match your sofa."

Scowling at her, he took in the sight of his most exasperating student sitting in his most coveted possession. He would never sit there again, and it was one of few things he missed from corporeal existence. His expression turned wistful. Memories of the afternoon he'd been invited to the Evans' house for dinner, and had been allowed to sit on the chair. Memories of Lily's warm thigh against his as they read together as teenagers. Memories of watching Lily nurse Harry peacefully, when Potter had been out and before they had gone into hiding. How he ached to sit there again, instead of this impetuous girl who sought to tease him with the origins of his chair. He knew he would come to regret leaving his house to this chit of a girl, if only he had realised just how right he would be.

"I believe you were about to recount precisely what Draco has done, Miss Granger."

As she began, he sensed her armour coming down. He had been correctly suspicious of the inscrutable young woman from the Headmaster's Office. Even he was surprised to learn of the origin of the bruises on her neck, and he felt a wave of impatience as he sought to learn Draco's actual involvement. Swallowing it, he remained quiet as she continued, precisely as ever. She wasn't telling him everything, there was no context for the attack, and he was not about to be deprived of vital gen. He held his tongue, impassive, as she stuttered through Draco breaking Zabini's knuckles. He could not, however, avoid a smirk after hearing how she'd covered him in the cloak that had so tormented him as a teenager. Never would he have imagined the girl and Draco in such close quarters, and he was amused with her evident discomfort. In her night things too. She must have been mortified.

"Miss Granger. You are withholding from me. There must be a reason Mr. Zabini sought to vanish your food, bruise your décolletage, and strangle you."

Silence. A speechless Hermione Granger. He had always imagined that moment to be glorious. It wasn't. It was frustrating, and if he were perfectly honest, a little worrying. He had his suspicions about what precisely the Slytherin was taking advantage of.

"I don't know why he did it," she replied, technically truthful. She rose her face to his, honey and obsidian eyes meeting. Hermione knew what was coming, almost preferring it to having to say anything aloud. She swallowed as she felt the familiar attempt to infiltrate her mind. Yet this time, she did not construct a barrier. _The blood running down her arms in the quidditch stands, from the infringement of her own nails. The disgust she held for her skinny frame, pinching at invisible fat deposits. The panic of seeing that… that word scrawled on her forearm. The actual terror of being confronted with a smoked chicken platter. The cuts on her inner thighs. The slow sip of lemon squash every time she felt hunger pangs. The tight grip she had on her bruised ribs. The sleepless nights when Harry wasn't there. The grip of her small hands on her neck after Muggle Studies. The exhaustion she felt at Potter's Cottage. The feeling of Malfoy tight against her, defined crotch… _No. She sharply set up a barrier. That was not a necessary piece of information. He had seen quite enough.

It was his turn to be speechless. The bold Gryffindor Princess, who he had blindly trusted to guide Potter to defeat the Dark Lord, who he knew would never walk away from the hunt, had been hurting herself. Yes, he had held his suspicions, but this was more than that. She was starving herself, her mind of nutrition. The images of her lying in Potter's arms were… complex, to say the least. He was struck between anger at another shining star stolen by the mediocre, and a faint warmth of just how similar she was to Lily. She didn't see it, he knew. He would have been dominated by the former feeling a year ago. Now, though? Concern. Unease at what she was doing to herself. How disgustingly Hufflepuff of him, he grimaced.

"The situation makes rather a lot more sense now. What do you know of Mr. Zabini, Miss Granger?"

His words pulled her back to reality, but she was clutching the skin of her leg between two small fingers through the maroon cuffed trousers she wore. Hurting herself. Even now, especially so, he supposed. This was not an insignificant moment for her, after all. She only knew what little Mr. Zabini had shared at Slughorn's pathetic celebrity circle. So, he began, in his meticulously smooth voice, to tell her of the boy's early explorations of sadism within the school. This story, he knew, would not frame him well. Thankfully, he had nothing left to lose. She remained still throughout, struck by the viciousness of Zabini. She had dared believe he was helping her, inexplicable as it would be, at Slug Club. Rather, he recognised a pain to feed upon. Much like those poor witches he'd left humiliated and pained over the years. Yet he had no dark mark. An evil not bound by ideology, it seemed.

"It is my belief that Draco has seen you go through enough pain. After all, it was him who identified you at Malfoy Manor, which led to the torture he was forced to watch. Everything he sees from you now is an extension of that decision, and he does not yet comprehend that sometimes costs are made to be bourne. While he has gone to great lengths to give you the impression that he is cruel, it is more accurate to say he knows cruelty. I would not go so far as to say he is showing you a kindness, but I do not believe he means you harm."

She mulled over his statement. Impressive, he made her torture sound more problematic for his precious Godson than it had been for her. Typical Snape. What he said made sense, but it didn't change the reality of the situation. There was no room for cruelty in a post-Voldemort world, and Malfoy would certainly be caught if this, this destructiveness continued.

"So how do I help him?"

Snape took in the girl, who had curled her legs into the armchair. She was hurting, and still, her ridiculous selflessness toward someone who had made her school years miserable persevered. For once, he was appreciative of the ridiculous habit. Draco was his godson after all.

"Mr. Zabini will not tell the origin of his injuries. He will seek you out again, however, even if it is by nefarious means. He is a Slytherin and a determined young man. As for you and Draco, the two of you seem to encounter one another frequently already. All it takes is one person, Miss Granger. You are an insufferable know-it-all, and more than capable of delivering change. You must, however, feed your mind with more than books."

She gazed up at him, surprised by the first direct reference he had made to what he'd seen within her mind. She issued no reply, and he continued to observe her. They remained, in an unexpected companionable silence until the first light of dawn streamed through the filthy windows. She bid him good night, took great care to lock up, and made her way back to Hogwarts.


	9. Mucus

Mucus

Harry hadn't needed to feel her slip back into his arms at dawn to know she had been gone most of the night. Her skin was shadowed with exhaustion, cheekbones pale and pronounced. He supposed it had been a long night with the pensieve, given her far more expansive memories of the horrors of Lucius Malfoy and that house. She had cut it fine to submit the memories, but if he had been… violated like that, he would prefer not to revisit it too. He feathered his fingers through her soft curls, an arm lying tenderly on her slight waist. He had to talk to her. About Hogsmede, to start with at least. He recalled those finger shaped bruises across her thin neck and felt an effervesce of rage within him.

He took a deep breath, and held her closer, his fingers tracing the lowest of her ribs. Neville had told him what he could, about that day, but had been distracted by the commotion around a bloodied and bruised Blaise Zabini. The whole episode was bizarre, too much was going on at that one moment in that one place for it to be entirely unconnected. Harry was distracted slightly by the stirring witch in his arms. He felt the stretch of her slender legs against him, wiggling toes against his shins. His tiny 'Mione. It was time to ask questions, or try to. At least she couldn't run off curled up like this.

"Morning," he whispered, nuzzling her hair with his nose.

He heard her soft groan in response. She was worn-out. He breathed her in. Her hair smelled lightly of lotus flower, and he was reminded of showering after her. Merlin, she was intoxicating sometimes. He grinned as her hair tickled his nose. He could stay like this forever. No. He had to ruin it. He couldn't put this off any longer. He needed to know. Yes. Now. Just one more minute of _this_. She fit perfectly to his body. No. Now.

"You know I need to ask. What happened in Hogsmede?"

She shifted marginally in his arms, and if he hadn't caught the whispered flicker of movement across her eyelids, he might have believed she hadn't heard. They lay in silence for a moment, and he was thankful she hadn't scurried away to the bathroom. For Hermione, however, it was a question she had known was inevitable. With the events of the night freshly running through her mind, however, she elected to interpret his question specifically. Anyway, given Zabini apparently wouldn't be fully deterred by broken knuckles, Harry's protection would not be unwelcome.

"This stays between us. No Ron. No Neville. No professors. I haven't quite worked it all out yet myself."

He tightened his grip on her. He would follow her wishes. How could he not? The risks she had taken, secrets she had kept for him over the years, made it almost a ludicrous question. Curious though. He felt a little better about failing to piece it together himself, given she was still processing the events of that day. He murmured his understanding quietly to her ear.

"I met Neville there to talk, and I went to the bathroom. Zabini found me there and attacked me, and Malfoy dragged him off and told me to leave. I did. I was just… surprised, I suppose? I don't know what's going on, and I will work it out. For now, though, this needs to be between us."

Silence. She was almost tempted to open her eyes, but his arm remained, holding her to him. He hadn't stormed off and killed Zabini. Yet. It was a lot to take in. She knew that. After all, she hadn't dealt with it yet herself. Breathing in the knowledge that had spilled into the air around them, she felt him tense, and knew what he wanted to go and do. Her Harry: wouldn't cast a killing curse against Voldemort, but wouldn't hesitate to tear Zabini's limbs off to defend her. She could feel the predicament he was in, his frame was taut, wracked with conflict. It was several minutes before either of them spoke. Harry first.

"Trust Malfoy to be hanging around the girls' bathroom."

After a pause, she started giggling. Infectiously. They lay in bed, enjoying the moment together. He was relieved she was willing to share this with him. For a while now, it had seemed all too one-sided. She was always there to pick up the pieces. She put his mind back together night after night, locking away his darkest thoughts before sleep. It had always been unbalanced. Of that he was guilty, he knew. Things could be more equal now. She needed his support, his protection, his care. Zabini would likely be out of the Hospital Wing by now. It didn't take that long to heal bones, even crumbled ones when the supplies of Skele-Gro were mystifyingly vanishing.

Harry drew her a bath before he left for early practice. He left a small table with a large glass of iced squash next to the tub. He had even laid out her uniform before promising to meet her back there before breakfast. She could smell the distinctive eucalyptus that meant there was a pleasant base of Dead Sea salts, and steamy rings of jasmine rose from the abundant lather of bubbles on the surface. She brought the Dogweed and Deathcap catalogue through, and set about coordinating an order for the cottage as she let the hot bath relieve her aching body. It had been a long few days.

By the time Owl Post arrived, she realised she had gained a bodyguard. Harry sat next to her, while simultaneously managing to surround her with his presence. No clear line of fire for any untoward hexes, she supposed. There was no simple way of explaining that wasn't the type of pain Zabini wished to exert, so she remained quiet. Neville joined them, raising an eyebrow at the protective arm he had glued to her, but did not pass comment. Sipping on a glass of water, she unfurled the scroll that had been deposited, noting that Luna and Dean had also received deliveries.

After reading the contents, she rolled it up and tucked it into her robes. Harry shoving a final rasher of bacon into his mouth, they swiftly made their way to Potions. They were not having this discussion in the Great Hall. As they approached the dungeons, nearing the Slytherin Common Room, Harry was alert to an extent she hadn't seen since the Final Battle. His anxiety was as infectious as her giggles had been hours earlier, and she began nipping at her wrist as his disquiet engulfed her. Grateful to reach the lab without incident, they began a low conversation about their owls.

The scrolls they had received were a summons to the Wizengamot. Harry had recognised the thick plum seal immediately, of course. Given she was a more law-abiding citizen, it had come as more of a shock. Apparently Mr. Malfoy was invoking the right to cross-examine Ministry witnesses. Rare. Very rare. She twisted the skin of her thumb tightly. Bastard. She had hoped to never see him again, after that evening with the pensieve. Apparently, he refused to be forgotten. In a few days, she would have to face a cross-examination, from what would no doubt be a smug Pureblood affronted by her very existence. Good. She hoped it was. The purer the better. She could do this. Muggleborn defeats smug Pureblood in court. She could see the Prophet now. That is, if they even chose to report on it. Headlines of late had consisted of dull tales of the Gringotts restructuring, and a spate of accidental magic in Cornwall. She could count on the Quibbler at least, she knew Luna's father would keenly deliver a stinging headline. The long and short of it was that in a few days, she would be back in the courtroom she had infiltrated last year. Lucius Malfoy remained as demanding as ever, then. Once again, Hermione couldn't help but reflect on how little had changed since the war ended.

As she considered the disturbing arrogance of the father, the son revealed himself. Taking a seat just behind her in the lab, he gave no indication of the previous evening. His face impassive, if fatigued, and his stride quick. He had a perfect vantage point of the classroom; she could practically feel those grey eyes boring into her back. She thought back to the previous night. The ear-splitting crush of Zabini's knuckles. All she had learnt from Professor Snape. But every so often, her mind sidestepped back to the moments under the cloak. No. Pointless to think of that. Yet as she forced her mind onto a new subject, it wandered back disobediently. Damn. He seemed to have forgotten much quicker than she could.

A slamming door broke her from the reverie. Professor Slughorn walked in, accompanied by a glowering Zabini who sat at the front desk. She tensed. She had forgotten he took Potions. Shit. She could feel irate heat emitting from Harry. Herself? The familiar crush of panic. She took her hand and gripped her rib cage from the back, hidden from Slughorn's kind gaze. She squeezed. Tighter. Harder. Yes. She wanted to feel. Really feel. As the professor droned on about the properties of Veritaserum antidotes, she crushed her fist around her bones as tightly as possible. Harry had his fists clenched around the heavy table top. Seething. Hair strewn around. He had to calm down. He had promised. Shit. Not enough. Nails. She dug her nails in.

Sitting behind them, Draco Malfoy remained still. Potter knew then. At least some of it, the Zabini angle. He doubted she'd expanded more than that, or he'd likely be in the Hospital Wing himself. The idiot was practically radiating hatred. She was hurting herself again too. Merlin, why? Her thin blouse did nothing to obscure the bones beneath. He'd have to stop her. They were distracting him from the class, he couldn't see properly. Yes. He had to do something. For the sake of his learning. Those bloody nails. She was about to break the skin again, and then she'd be a right mess. That would be an unwelcome distraction. Yes, he had to act.

"You have two hours, supplies are in the cupboard. You may begin," Slughorn finished, the scraping of stools distracting Malfoy from his thoughts.

Zabini was yet to stand and get his ingredients, so Malfoy trailed after the duo in front of him on his way to the cupboard. Yet they weren't followed into the tight space, and instead, there was an awkward hesitation between the three of them in the claustrophobic room. Ignoring it, he made his way back to the desk and started delicately slicing Adder's Fork with his knife. Potter had already screwed up in his anger, the boy's gold cauldron reaching a premature rolling boil. It better not explode. He shook his head and dismissed it. After all, he was here to learn.

Hermione had settled down over her cauldron and was already adding Shrivelfig juice. She turned the heat up slightly, and sat back on her stool to observe the other students. Slughorn was in his office, likely completing some grading. She had time to help. Harry's potion was far too thin, so she cast a stasis charm before turning down the heat for him. Her nose wrinkled at the bitter rings rising from the pot, and she dispatched him back to the cupboard to fetch some Flobberworm Mucus. Counter clockwise stirring might help, and so she began. Minutes later, she felt Malfoy's eyes on her again, no doubt judging her decision to save Harry's grade.

CRASH.

As she moved her head toward the direction of the noise, she felt Malfoy next to her again. The cupboard. Zabini was no longer at his desk. Shit. She tried to run toward the cupboard, but there was a weighty hand on her shoulder, pushing her down on the stool. She whipped her head round toward him, how dare he hold her here. She tried to stand again, only to find him behind her now, against her back. Both hands on her shoulders. She couldn't move without hexing him, and she wasn't going to blow up the potions that surrounded them. Trapped. Damn him.

There was a pained retch, and a thud. Professor Slughorn was still nowhere to be seen, and none of the other students seemed inspired to get involved. A more piercing scream this time, and a deeper retch. She wriggled out of Malfoy's pressure, and twisted away from him only to find a sudden grip around her waist. His arm. There. No. She froze. What the hell was wrong with him? Had he forgotten that she was filth to him?

"I'm a Mudblood, remember," she snapped.

He looked into her eyes for a moment, before releasing her. He seemed ashamed, obviously he had realised he was infected now, by the terms of his own revolting ideology. He was still behind her, but he didn't look at her again and he took a step back. Before she could get to Harry, he walked out of the cupboard, a thin cut threatening blood next to his mouth. His expression was set, hardened. He didn't pause to glance around at his shocked classmates within the lab.

"Professor Slughorn?" Harry's voice called out calmly. Once the man emerged from his office, Harry continued, "I think Zabini has had an accident Sir, it might be best for him to return to the Hospital Wing to be checked?"

Zabini walked out of the cupboard, limbs unharmed. His face however, was streaming thick green mucus out of every orifice. He almost seemed to be choking on it. Slughorn took a single look at Harry's straight expression, and dismissed the vomiting Slytherin from the classroom. The students murmured quietly, and the Professor returned to his office without passing comment.

Harry approached their desk. She pressed her fingertip against the cut on his face, tracing it. He caught her hand in his, and his eyes shifted to the deadpan Malfoy behind them. He seemed to care little, if at all, about his classmate. Yet he looked oddly flustered, a tinge of red to the Ferret's cheekbones. Harry ignored it, and turned to the unimpressed girl next to him.

"We're out of Flobberworm Mucus, I'm afraid 'Mione."


	10. Sting

Sting

Escaping her bodyguard had been almost impossible. Harry was reticent to leave her alone, wary of a revenge attack from Zabini. The first opportunity she had to return to Potter's Cottage was the Saturday before the Gryffindor-Ravenclaw fixture. He had insisted on having a full day exercise after noticing Ron's rapidly declining fitness. She waited until she could hear the distant, echoed shouts of practice before heading out of the grounds through the Whomping Willow. She hesitated for a moment, in the room where she had watched her latest confidante die. It was as filthy and shabby as ever, but she could not deny the Shack held a quality to it she hadn't detected before. So much had happened here. A place most didn't know existed. Rapidly dismissing the notion of a new project, she hurried through to Hogsmede and apparated with a crack to the meandering lane that led to the cottage.

Given the absolute silence around the thoroughfare, she could only assume most of the residents were out enjoying the crisp Autumn weekend. It made sense, then, to work on the perimeter wall that was in dire need of repointing. With a furtive glance around, she disillusioned herself and felt the familiar sensation of a raw egg dripping from her head. As close to invisible as was practical, she began taking in the task before her. Years of bitter English weather had softened the mortar amongst the stones, and she conjured a stream of perfectly colour-matched cement between the masonry. A row of vertical capstone topped the wall, and several duplication charms later, she had replaced the missing shingles. She stepped back to admire her work. The wall did indeed look much improved, the repairs sympathetic to the overall character of the home.

Home. Well, she hoped it would be one again. A needle of doubt pressed her mind again. Distraction. The gate. Yes. The wood was soft to the touch, and in dire need of replacement. Even the lock had rotted, and menacing splinters struck out of the catch. She determined that wood, in this weather, was unlikely to fare well over time. She did not intend to pass Harry an ongoing construction site. She took a breath. It was the first time she was going to transfigure something quite so intricate. With a complex clockwise wrist movement, the strain on her arm indicated she needed more practice, but after some significant time passed, she had produced a functional option. Glossy black wrought iron, the new cross-top gate was immaculate. Testing the wards, as the gate clicked into place, she found they had remained strong. A good start, certainly.

Entering the garden, she felt the disillusionment shift away, the wards unwilling to accept any deception within their boundaries. Good. It was safe. She knew there were some aspects of construction that she daren't take charge of herself, and conjured a tape measure. Levitating it toward the windows, she memorised the dimensions of each opening in need of replacement, and flicked the tape measure away once more. She had a few ideas of how to distinguish the cottage for Harry, but first, there was ample hard labour to do. Setting her bag down, she took stock of the enormous task that sat before her. The garden was still overgrown, and given she wasn't quite sure how some plants might respond to being magically eradicated, she knew it was time to embrace her Muggle side. She should have asked Neville. Damn it. Too late now.

An hour later, as she made to pull out another set of the glistening purple berries that had sprouted wildly across the garden, she felt her rumbling headache worsen. She fell into a crouch from her initial squatting position, and closed her eyes for a moment. She wasn't someone who got migraines. Maybe she was hungry? No. The mere thought made her more nauseous than usual. Opening her eyes again, she felt a sudden overwhelming desire to just lie down for a moment. The ground was inviting, almost glistening, inviting her to just rest for a while. No. She wanted to finish this. Harry was unlikely to leave her unsupervised for long enough to do such an amount of work regularly, and they had the trial next week. Merlin, her head was pulsing. Crushing in on itself, almost. She fell forward, struck by the intensity of the pain. Too much.

Hogwarts. Need bed. Hogwarts. She apparated, past caring about any potential splinching, and landed squarely within the Shrieking Shack again. Bed. Sleep. Enough. The grounds were blisteringly sunlit, and she wished more than anything that she had brought a scarf that morning. Anything to tie around her eyes. The shouts from the Quidditch practice were bad enough. Never had Hogwarts felt so close to hell, even in the midst of battle. She dragged herself across the grounds, barely feeling the grazes and cuts on her legs as she navigated with her eyes squeezed shut.

Stumbling through the doors of the castle, she hauled herself up the stairs. Step. One more step Hermione. Yes. Now the other foot. Her legs felt unbearably heavy until she had no choice but to crawl. Her mind felt increasingly fuddled, and her desire for darkness and silence was overwhelming. Even in the gloomy halls of Hogwarts, it was too bright. The echo of her steps, as she put one foot in front of another, was too loud. She would be alright, if only she could lie down and perhaps close her eyes for a few moments. No. Keep going. Need Madam Pomfrey. Something was wrong. As she reached the third floor, or maybe it was the second, she had lost the ability to count a while ago now, the noise became unbearable. She slumped, bringing her heavy arms to cover her ears and pressed her forehead against the cold stone wall. Anything to block out the agony from the crushing racket around her. No more breaths now. Too loud. Too painful.

"Granger?"

She let out an anguished whimper at the booming voice, and instantly regretted it. Too loud. Too much. She couldn't do it anymore. She wanted it to end. All of it. Soon. Now. Senses entirely overwhelmed, she smacked her head hard on the wall in front of her, only to be dragged back by two strong arms. She screamed at the sudden flood of light that invaded her eyes, closed though they were. Too much. She fumbled for her wand, desperate to end the pain, but found herself lifted easily in the air before she could quite locate it. With her face buried into a strong chest, broad enough to block the light, she was free to shut out the noise. She wanted it all to stop. Her mind, she was losing it, surely. It was falling out of her skull, sucked down her spine like a straw. The jagged movement of whoever was holding her quite so intensely was excruciating in itself, but the resounding strides he took up the stairs was unbearable.

A loud knocking stirred more murmuring complaints from the girl, and the man felt her push her head further into his chest. A big step, some loud questions she couldn't quite make out and then she was on something soft. A sudden rip of sunlight tortured her eyes again, only to be replaced by a bang as someone shuttered the windows with a flick of their wand.

"Get Pomfrey. Now, Longbottom."

She vaguely recognised the voice, but the throbbing refused her an answer. Pomfrey. Yes. God yes. She must be on her bed. The man took to eliminating every source of light and noise in the room, silently casting darkening spells until he could barely see beyond the end of his nose. Sound, he thought. He took off his own shoes, and cushioned the floor before casting a silencing spell on the common room. She was still murmuring, and he sat on the edge of the bed to try and understand what she was saying. It was no use, she was unintelligible. Just his luck, to end up in this situation. Stuck with her. She was covered in a thin layer of sweat, but seemed to be shivering. He was spending far too much of his time saving her arse lately. He had not intended to make a habit out of it. To his surprise, she grabbed at his hand and pressed it against her face, covering her eyes. He didn't resist, nor tear it away from her. Instead, he allowed her whatever comfort could be derived from further darkness in an already black room. It seemed it offered her some. She stopped murmuring, and her shallow breathing steadied slightly.

It seemed like an age before Neville returned, ushering an exasperated Madame Pomfrey into the room. She had clearly been instructed to be quiet, and seemed only mildly surprised by the darkness around them. She certainly raised a far higher eyebrow at the presence of Draco Malfoy. Right now, though, he didn't give a damn. After several charms, including a softly beating pulse that had Hermione whimpering in pain, and the reluctant administering of a pain relief potion, she ushered the two boys into the common room.

"She's damaged her dura, and lost spinal fluid. Has she been playing Quidditch? Or hurt her spine in some way?" The mediwitch whispered as quietly as possible. Clearly noise was a problem. Neville and Malfoy looked at one another, completely unsure of what she had been doing. Whatever it was, spinal fluid didn't sound like something one was supposed to lose much of.

"I found her on my way back to Muggle Studies, smashing her head against the wall. It was the light and the sound, I think. No idea where she's been, but she is dirty. My shirt is caked in mud."

Mud. Dirt. Soil. Neville took a step toward the prone Hermione in the completely blackened room, reaching an arm toward her feet. Apparently satisfied with what he felt, he returned to the other room.

"I think she was clearing a garden, at Godric's Hollow. She's, she's been secretly renovating Harry's house there. She asked me for help selecting plants. Godric's Hollow, well, it's the only place Moonseed grows in Britain. She's wearing low shoes. Maybe she's particularly sensitive. What if it got to her ankles?"

Within seconds, the mediwitch had advanced back into the room. Malfoy followed her, while Longbottom retreated to his own room muttering about a book. Whispering her diagnostic charms, dim blue sparkles hovered around Granger's ankle. Apparently, Longbottom might have had a point. Malfoy moved to the top of the bed, where she immediately stole his hand back to her face. He felt the questioning gaze of Madam Pomfrey burn into him, and refused to look up. It wasn't like he had a choice in all of this. Had he left the Gryffindor Princess to die on the stairs, he'd be public enemy number one. Again. Anyway, why wasn't the woman casting non-verbally? The light hisses of magic were clearly disturbing enough.

After sealing the residual damage to her spinal cord, and determining that time would heal the girl best, there was some sort of whispered discussion about antidotes between the Head Boy and the matronly woman. Eventually, Neville and Madam Pomfrey left to talk to Professor Sprout, keen to assess potential routes to speeding her production of cerebrospinal fluid, leaving Hermione to be cared for by Malfoy. Both had hesitated, and offered to get Harry. Even the option of Ron had been raised, though only half-heartedly. Granger needed near silence for a few hours at least.

"Secret. Don't tell where," she murmured, as he had returned to sit beside her.

The silly bitch. Thanks to Potter's inability to manage his own household, she'd almost died and he'd be spending all afternoon in her pitch-black bedroom. He had never thought he'd enter this most private domain; the thought hadn't even occurred to him. He'd missed Muggle Studies, against the terms of his return to Hogwarts. He did not want to return to Malfoy Manor. Not now, maybe not ever. All for Harry Potter's garden. He was going to kill him. After she'd surprised him, fine. But he was going to kill him. What sort of idiot family keeps plants that apparently kill people in their garden anyway?

Over time, his eyes adjusted to the darkness. He could see her room was tidy, a pile of books in the window seat. Clearly her preferred reading spot when the library was closed for the night. Her bed was a slightly wider version of his own four-poster, and had a nightstand on either side. There were items on both tables. He could vaguely make out a book, a photo frame and a perfume bottle on one. The other, closer to his position on the bed, had a lamp and… well, he could've sworn it was that bloody map. Half folded in a careless way he was sure Granger wouldn't be responsible for. On top, was a watch. A watch too large for Granger's wrists. She didn't sleep alone. Granger. He hoped to Merlin he wasn't sitting on anything disgusting, but he couldn't bring himself to move away from her.

Her tiny hands were still holding onto his palm, pressed over her eyes tightly. Eventually, she relaxed her grip slightly, and he lay back next to her. She felt warm to the touch, despite the shivering, and he wasn't sure what to do. So he lay still, body turned slightly toward her so she could keep his hand. Her features were rested, at last. The calming draught had done some good, clearly. She was a lot smaller than he'd noticed in previous years. His legs extended beyond the footboard, whereas her feet hit around his knees. He'd never been so close to her, not for this long. Despite what had apparently been a gruelling day of gardening, he could sense soft waves of spearmint and jasmine, and a hint of aged parchment. What a weird year this was turning out to be. He'd expected a lot of problems, but not this. He'd never even considered that he'd end up in the Head Girl's bed, comforting her. Not Granger.

At some point, he had rested his eyes, and it was only when he heard a rustle from the next room that he stirred. She was still fast asleep, and had lost the perturbing sheen of sweat. She had let go of his hand at some point, and it had drifted down to her back. Merlin. He'd practically been cradling her. At least it was pitch black. And she was asleep. He got up, presumably Longbottom had returned.

"Uh, Malfoy. I have to rub this salve into her ankles. It should stop her losing any more fluid. You can go, if you want. McGonagall knows why you had to leave your class. It's fine. Thanks for finding her, and staying with her… I'll make sure Hermione knows. Harry is on his way back," Neville paused awkwardly, "I don't know if you want to be here when he gets back?"

Without a word, Malfoy walked back into her room and pulled his shoes on. He took a final glance at the sleeping witch, and left her rooms. He needed some air.


	11. Hand

Hand

Harry Potter was a burgundy blur as he sprinted through the grounds. More than one First Year was bounced off his shoulders as he bounded up the staircases. His lungs burning, he made his way through the portrait into the dorm, only to find the place in absolute darkness. He kicked off his cleats, Madam Pomfrey's reminder of silence and shade resounding, and walked toward the little witch lying on the bed he'd left hours before. Neville was there, tenderly rubbing a thick opaque salve onto her left ankle. Harry half wanted to snatch the pot and do it himself, but he was utterly transfixed on how gaunt she looked in the dark. Her skin luminous, she was fragile porcelain. Her eyelids flickered slightly, as the bed yielded with a creak to Neville's weight as he reached for her right foot.

The split second of brown iris he caught was shadowed with pain. More anguished than after Dolohov's curse. How bad was it? Why was she not in the Hospital Wing? He still didn't understand how she'd gotten hurt. Questions could wait. For now, he eased himself onto the mattress next to her, and allowed himself to meander along their memories of dancing in the tent, swooping over the castle on Buckbeak to rescue Sirius, the wreath she made at his Mum and Dad's graves, her prone form underwater guarded by Merpeople, the petrified girl clutching a mirror. Enough adventures to last a lifetime. Ten lifetimes. He had been naïve enough to believe she was safe now. Yet here they were. Here she was. Hurting. Alone. His scar pulsed in a way it hadn't done for some time. Rage and shame. All he wanted in that moment was for her to enter his mind and make it better. Just like she always did. But she couldn't. He dropped his head down into his chest and screwed his eyes shut.

Neville watched the scene as he returned the topper to the salve with an all-too-loud pop. Little had changed since his arrival. Hermione remained comforted by a troubled, caring man either way. A man who wouldn't leave her side easily. A man who forgot everything to look after her. Shaking the curious contrast from his head, he made his way to the Gryffindor Common Room. The last thing she needed was a baying crowd of concerned visitors hammering on the portrait demanding updates. As he emerged from behind the Fat Lady, he found himself surrounded by what had clearly turned into an impromptu house meeting. Everyone, from the tiniest of First Years to the profusely sweating Ron, wanted answers.

In that moment, it was like he was back in the Room of Requirement, leading the rebellion against the Carrows. Since the battle, there hadn't been such a tentative yet determined union of the house. It was good to know that despite all of the effort Hogwarts were putting into pretending nothing had happened, the ability to support one another as a team had not been lost in this tower at least. Neville stood in front of the nervous group, closest to Hermione's peers. Ron was the first to shout out, indignant that he'd been banned from seeing the Head Girl personally, demanding to know what had happened to her. Ginny was the one who stamped soundly on his foot, as the Head Boy tried to speak.

"Hermione will be fine. She's going to need the weekend to recover, she's safe in her rooms. She can't have guests right now, she needs total quiet and darkness to get better. It's her story to tell, if she wants to, but to put yours minds at rest, I can tell you she wasn't hurt here at the castle."

He knew he wasn't delivering the details craved by the room at large, but he hadn't expected what came out next. It was a near explosion of noise, from the very girl who had enforced silence for him just seconds earlier.

"Well where is Harry then? If she can't have visitors, where the hell is Harry? I'd imagine he's with her. A visitor. If she's hurt, why isn't she in the Hospital Wing? Dean was just there, and no sign of Hermione. None of this makes sense, and I'm just about done with being kept in the dark on what is going on with them."

Even her brother looked surprised at the resentment springing from Ginny. Her cheeks were flushed with frustration. Dark eyes determined to get an answer. Neville might, under other circumstances, have imagined the words to come from a place of concern. Having been party to the distinctly cooled relationship between the youngest Weasley and his counterpart, however, he knew better. Jealousy. He regarded the girl with an unfamiliar sense of coldness. Disappointment, even. He was not about to have a conversation about the private relationship between Harry and Hermione. No matter how eager some of the younger students seemed to be for that to happen.

"There are lots of reasons to be angry about what's happening at Hogwarts at the moment. Plenty. None of those reasons are to do with Hermione. She is safest in our rooms, where she can have total darkness while not disturbing other students in need of medical attention. I am so relieved that our Head Girl is going to be okay, that she will survive and be back to normal soon. That wasn't at all certain for a while today. I came here to make sure you could stop worrying, just like me. I've done that now."

Neville rounded back, making to leave the room, but felt a soft grip on his forearm. Ron had caught him, and nodded toward the Wizard Chessboard. Apparently, he was still welcome here after all. With a deep breath, he took a seat as Ron set up the pieces. The crowd had dispersed, and he caught a whip of bold ginger hair storming up to the dormitories. It would do him good to have some down time. He had missed his classmates, even if they did insist on playing chess.

"Will you let me know when she's ready to have people? I almost had a heart attack when Pomfrey told us she was sick."

Neville nodded, knowing the restraint Ron was showing was more mature than he'd thought the man was capable of, if he was frank. It had not escaped his notice that it was Harry who had come careering into the Common Room, not Ron. He knew the pair had kissed at the Final Battle, and had seen the loving gazes that she routinely received from the boy, yet no relationship was forthcoming from her side at least. Unrequited, perhaps? But then why hadn't he been there with Harry this afternoon? Thoughts of Malfoy carrying Hermione in his arms invaded his mind again. What was the world coming to where Malfoy was the one tenderly cradling Hermione, not Ron? He shook his head slightly, aware that he'd zoned out of Ron's conversation.

"… don't know what to do about her. She's so bitter about Harry, like she thinks she lost him because of Hermione. I can't get her to understand that over a year, especially one where you almost die so many times, people change and relationships change. No one stole him, he's not an object."

Neville couldn't help but raise an eyebrow visibly at such reasonable analysis from Ron. Things had clearly changed. It wasn't that he had some great insight into what exactly had happened between the four. What he was privy to, however, were the six years before where Ron had routinely devastated Hermione as both a friend and love interest. He'd seen the tears when she was left isolated after an argument, using his relative popularity to hurt her. He could barely recognise the person in front of him now, and he felt quite proud of Ron. Even though he was still monologuing.

"I get what you say, you know, about Hogwarts being fucked up. The way everything seems normal, just because we've fixed the walls and the Death Eaters have to take Muggle Studies with Dad. I just don't know what to do about it. Dad won't talk about the classes at all."

Neville's interest was piqued, Arthur Weasley reticent to spill the beans on Muggle Studies? He wished he could be surprised, "No offence Ron, but your dad was around to pick up the pieces after the first war. It didn't work. Relying on them to do a better job this time is the definition of insanity. If we want things to be different, we have to make the change. Not them."

Neither had any truly concrete ways of doing so, and their mutual frustration at knowing that led them down the route of gossip and small talk until Neville had been checkmated. Upon returning to their rooms, Neville heard a stirring from Hermione's room, and took a seat on the armchair. Harry poked his head out, and sat opposite him, clearly keen to understand what had happened that day. Renewing the silencing charm, Neville had already decided to keep her secret. She was going to be fine, and there was no clear benefit to ruining it for Harry. It wouldn't help, and her distress would be for nothing. Besides, Harry deserved something special.

"How did she get here? Why did this happen? What happened, Neville?"

Neville relayed the tale, piecing together what he had derived from Malfoy. The shock on Harry's face was palpable. He couldn't blame him. Malfoy had seemed convinced that if she'd been seen outside of Muggle Studies by someone else, it'd be dangerous. It was utterly bizarre, though when he relayed this snippet to Harry, the boy's surprise seemed less apparent than his own. He had vaguely considered that the Slytherin might have been subject to the Imperius Curse. But no. What would be the point of forcing him to help Hermione? There had been a sense of exasperated sincerity about him anyway.

"There's something else, Harry. She's going to be more susceptible to this type of thing, and it will take her longer to recover, when she's not eating properly. When was the last time you saw her eat a meal? Her juice doesn't count."

Silence. Harry recalled Slug Club, but that was some time ago, and he was sure she'd been moving her food to his plate. His mind shifted to the delicate individual ribs he held every night as they slept. She was not getting healthier. He knew that.

"I don't know how to make her eat. This is Hermione. You can't enforce anything. I don't know why she doesn't want food. We've relied on her so much over the years. Maybe too much."

The two sat in contemplative quiet. Harry knew he would have to step up his game. He regretted not leaving a snack with her squash, when he ran her a bath. He would do it more. He could do that, and maybe she'd eat. Maybe away from people, she would feel more comfortable. Even if it took time. He would do whatever she needed. Neville was right, and brave enough to confront him on not having stepped up on this.

"You're a good man, Neville. I needed a kick up the arse," and with that he returned to Hermione, peacefully asleep on the bed.

It was late at night by the time Hermione woke, and felt a slightly lighter presence on the bed next to her. Harry. Her hazy mind had brief memories of a taller, platinum-haired Malfoy. In bed with her. His hands on her. Weird. She didn't dare move her head too much, it was still throbbing. She felt a bit better, and could open her eyes, though remained grateful for the darkness of the room. She noticed Harry staring at her, a soft sparkle to his eyes as he saw her awake. He looked exhausted. There was time to understand what had happened in the morning. Snuggling closer to him, she drifted off to sleep again.

By Sunday afternoon, Hermione had been able to spend the day out of bed, even going so far as to send an owl: she needed to send the plant order for Potter's Cottage, and another request as well. Neville had walked her to the Owlery, keen to talk about the Moonseed incident. She described the plants she'd been weeding when the headache had begun: dark purple berries and a smattering of radiant crescent seeds on the ground. He could tell she felt at least a little embarrassed by her failure to recognise the plant.

"Hermione, don't worry. It's incredibly rare, and I've never seen anyone so sensitive to them as you. Now we know, you can simply avoid physical contact with them and just be aware. I'll come by and clear them myself, if that helps, or just magically eradicate them. It's safe. If Snape was still… you know, about, there might even have been an antidote or vaccine. You had no way of knowing this would happen. Anyway, neither of us told Harry, so your secret is still just that."

Hermione gave him a weak hug, before climbing through the portrait outside of their rooms, and the alluring scent of a bath being ran. It would take a couple of days to feel physically better, she knew, but she was on her way. Smiling, she joined Harry in the bathroom, noting he'd provided her favourite drink and even some freshly baked cookies from the Kitchens. An hour later, hidden beneath a thick bubble lather, she felt almost herself again as Harry read her favourite excerpts from Hogwarts: A History from his conjured cushioned chair. Her laughter didn't hurt her head so much anymore. Peace.

Monday morning, and the school was ablaze with rumours of an attack on Hermione Granger. Draco Malfoy sat at his house table, casually running his fork over the softly smoked mackerel on his plate, questioning how they would feel when they found out that the Gryffindor Princess had been attacked by a plant. He would have delighted in the awkwardness of the situation, had he not been plagued by how she had clung to him for support as he carried her to bed, how tightly she had pressed her head into his chest, the way her hands had pressed his palm so insistently over her eyes. He had seen pain before. Lots of it. He had experienced it too. At the hands of his father and the wand of his Aunt. But not like yesterday. He had been woefully inadequate. Again. Just like the Manor.

He felt eyes on him. Zabini, no doubt. The apparently perpetual glaring was why he'd spent quite so long in the bathroom during Muggle Studies on Saturday. He understood that Zabini wanted his pound of flesh. Not that he would get it, of course, but the build-up to the inevitable further humiliation of his classmate was tedious at best. The convenient shelter the war had provided to Zabini's depraved indulgences had disappeared only to reveal damaged survivors. Sirens, enchanting in their ability to lure him in, none more enthralling in their potential for debasement than Hermione Granger. That could not be allowed to happen. He would not allow that to happen.

He was pulled from his thoughts by the determined swoop of a Barred Owl carrying a small parcel. He detached the load from its leg, and fed the owl the accompanying treat. The bird hooted rowdily, before flying away. How unbecoming. He unfurled the note: smooth, small handwriting in a cursive script.

_Thank you for lending a hand. I understand I somewhat ruined your shirt, so please accept a replacement along with my apologies._

_Hermione Granger_

Lending a hand? Surely the exasperating girl didn't have a sense of humour. He looked toward the Gryffindor table, but there was an expanse of empty bench where she usually sat. She had always been in direct line of sight, all the easier to torment. Not today though. He folded the note, tucking it into the inside pocket of his robe, and strode back to the dungeons to unwrap the distinctive glossy parcel paper of Twilfitt and Tattings.


	12. Papers

Papers

The waiting was unbearable. As witnesses, they had been unable to sit together before they gave evidence to the Wizengamot, and had been rapidly funnelled off into six separate offices. She had sat for a while, at the desk, before she began to explore her surroundings. After all, she was not due to be called until after the others. The star witness. That was how they'd referred to her. After all, who had better memories of his evil than the girl who had been tortured on his drawing room floor? Star witness indeed. How crass.

The office that imprisoned her was on Level One of the Ministry, only a couple of doors away from Kingsley. Important then, whoever this office belonged to. There had been no name plate outside, but it was lived in. Piles of parchment on the desk, a slightly open drawer filled with an array of well-used ink pots, a threadbare leather chair, and a series of large filing cabinets. No. She mustn't. They were that familiar matte gun metal grey; the type her parents' dental surgery had used. _Familiarity is no excuse for snooping_, she reminded herself. She could sense the magic coming from them, of course, they had been locked and warded. Certainly designed to notify the owner should there be any interference without their consent. Magical interference anyway.

Before she quite knew what she was doing, she was fingering a parchment clip from the pot on the desk. Straightening one end into a slightly hooked instrument, leaving the other side curled entirely as a grip. Holding the tool vertically between her index finger and thumb, she pressed the hook into the keyhole, taking care to keep an eye on the door. Pushing down on the pins within the lock, she twisted left and found it ease through and click into position. Yes. The magic remained undisturbed, as she pulled the handle and opened the cabinet. After all, she had time for some light reading.

The first piece she read was an expansion of the Werewolf Registration Act, increased penalties. She sighed. Had they learned nothing? Forcing people underground, segregated away from wizarding society hardly had a good track record. She had not intended to turn this jaunt into an investigation, but she found herself reading faster and faster, keen to see what else was going on in Kingsley's Ministry. The next file she opened, however, merited investigation of a more private manner. The workings of the taboo… wand signatures? Identifying the specific people saying the name. This wasn't a retraction, it was an expansion. A dangerous one. The very same taboo that had resulted in the scar on her arm and the nightmares that plagued her. How had this not been revoked? Surely this should have been the first order of the day, even if they weren't capturing those who broke the taboo, this was essentially a trace of all anti-Voldemort wizards. In the wrong hands, lives were at risk.

An hour in, she realised that despite the impeccable filing system of the office's occupant, the time it would take to truly read all of these documents was such that the risk of getting caught was entirely too large for her taste. Instead, she turned her attention to duplicating the papers and stowing them in her beaded bag to review at a more appropriate time. She suspected Snape would be proud, if he could see her now. No sooner had she tidied the papers away, relocked the cabinet and disposed of the parchment clip, a knock on the door signalled it was her turn to descend into the bowels of the Ministry. It was time.

She was guided into the courtroom, and took a seat by the stand pointed out to her by Kingsley. The crowd had thinned significantly since Harry's hearing. Some members had been killed, others were in Azkaban. She recognised a few faces, Professor Marchbanks had returned to the fold. Her expression as unyielding as ever, but Hermione was pleased to see the esteemed examiner returned to the council. She winced slightly at the hint of a smile from Tiberias Ogden, smug and plump in his purple robes. McLaggen would have a field day when he heard of this. Others were less friendly: a wizened, yet still portly Fudge glared at her from the gloomy backbenches. Her attention, however, was consumed by the man at the centre of the trial.

The elder Malfoy was sitting on a straight-backed chair, his wrists bound to the rests either side of his body. He had long since ceased to be the intimidating man who had so demeaned her at Flourish and Blotts, and he had evidently lost the commanding dominance he had exuded at the Department of Mysteries. His hair was greying and receding, and had become somewhat matted. The shadow of a beard she'd noticed at the Manor remained. His eyes were sunken in his skull, red as though he had either slept very little or suffered rather a lot. On his neck, were the tattooed runes that signified his prisoner number. For a moment, she felt pity for the man, pity that was soon dislodged as she recalled all Professor Snape had told her.

She felt an odd sense of calm, as the introductions took place. Really, she hadn't felt so at peace since the Battle of Hogwarts. It was almost as if her purpose had been fulfilled as soon as Voldemort was dead. Numb. Yet here she was again. Useful. Kingsley held his usual calm aura, but the Wizengamot seemed to crackle with excitement to hear what she had to say. They had viewed her memories already, some time ago, yet the defence had insisted on the right to cross examination. Not the usual practice, in wizarding law. But then, she supposed, Lucius Malfoy was hardly a usual wizard.

She couldn't be angry he had done so. She felt alive. Every detail before her exquisitely vibrant, every movement decelerated as if it was being committed to her memory. She felt herself again. Relaxed in an environment designed to be anything but. As the summary of the trial so far was put forth by Kingsley, she found herself focusing on Mr. Malfoy's counsel.

Cepheus Rosier was a tall, wiry man with thick brushed back mahogany hair. As the Minister spoke, the man cast his eyes over the Wizengamot, scrutinizing their reactions closely. Having taken his fill, he turned his attention to Hermione. He didn't hesitate to look directly at her, copper eyes twinkling slightly having caught her staring. He ran his eyes over her, and she felt duly uncomfortable with his gaze. She turned back toward Mr. Malfoy and noticed he too was paying attention to the interaction between his representative and herself. She steeled herself for what she could tell would be a noteworthy afternoon. When Rosier finally spoke, it was with a stentorian, artificially polished brogue.

"Today we have heard much of the horrors experienced in Malfoy Manor. You have just heard how this talented young witch, whose actions did so much to save the Wizarding world, was tortured at a house owned by the defendant. Many terrible things happened in that house, where the defendant was also imprisoned. One of the worst, no doubt, is what happened to Ms. Granger. She was a child stripped of both her clothes and her dignity, by the infamous werewolf Fenrir Greyback. She was subject to the Cruciatus curse from the well-practised wand of Death Eater Bellatrix Lestrange. She had her blood status carved into her arm by a cursed silver blade. It will remain there until death. She was then left to be gangraped and killed, acts she narrowly avoided in her escape. Ms. Granger here has suffered a great ordeal. No party in this chamber is disputing the torture she has experienced, that will surely impact her for the rest of her life."

A pregnant pause allowed some confused murmurs from the assembled Wizengamot to be heard. Even the inexpressive Lucius Malfoy had allowed a quirk of his eyebrow at Rosier's interpretation of events. The counsel continued.

"What is disputed, however, is that Mr. Malfoy played any illegal role in these despicable acts. The man you see held before you did not capture Ms. Granger. He did not strip her. He did not curse her. He did not touch or injure her. He did not rape her. He was present in those deplorable moments in much the same way Ms. Granger was: as a prisoner. Mr. Malfoy was allowed no wand, much like Ms. Granger. Mr. Malfoy was allowed no freedom, much like Ms. Granger. Mr. Malfoy was tortured in the same Manor, in the same room as Ms. Granger on the very same day. He retains the lifelong scars, physical and mental, much like Ms. Granger."

Hermione could barely contain her outrage at the tactic. Yet she had to admit, it was sharp and shrewdly conscious of the political climate. Lucius Malfoy had only stared at her body as she was stripped. Lucius Malfoy had only laughed as she was struck with unforgivable curses. Lucius Malfoy had only tutted at the time wasted by Bellatrix carving 'Mudblood' into her arm. Lucius Malfoy had busied himself summoning Voldemort while others approached her with foul rape on their minds. Rosier was, infuriatingly, correct.

"Presented before you are two survivors of torture. Two people whose agony and torment have been caused by the friendships they formed as small eleven-year olds. Two people whose lives have been disrupted immeasurably by the existence of a dark wizard. Yet one has the burden of Azkaban over his head, while the other has her freedom. As desperately wretched the suffering of Ms. Granger is, it is not the fault of Mr. Malfoy, he has committed no crime against this young woman."

It was an awkward tactic to say the least, drawn together through a series of devastating parallels, and the Wizengamot were audibly stirred. Hermione felt the stare of Rosier on her once more, and knew he was building up to a cross examination.

"It is well established that Ms. Granger here is by far the brightest witch of her age. She has ten OWLs. She is Head Girl at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. She was certainly the brains of the operation behind the downfall of He Who Must Not Be Named. It is rare that we have such a mind in this courtroom, and I hope you will listen very carefully to her responses in the next few moments. She has earned our respect as a chamber."

He turned toward her now, with a smile that met his twinkling eyes. An unusual man, to be sure.

"Ms. Granger, were you tortured in Mr. Malfoy's home?"

She answered affirmatively.

"Ms. Granger, it is my understanding of magical law that to own the premises on which criminal acts are undertaken is not a criminal offence. I am led to believe you are well read in this subject. Do you agree with my understanding?"

Again, yes.

"Thank you. It is also my understanding that it is not illegal to observe a criminal offence without intervention when imprisoned under threat of your life. Do you agree with my understanding?"

Of course she did. Shit. She was beginning to see how Malfoy avoided prison after the First Wizarding War.

"In your opinion, from what you saw at Voldemort's headquarters, what do you believe would have happened to Mr. Malfoy had he sought to oppose the Death Eaters there? Or attempted to leave?"

He would be killed. Conjecture, of course, but intelligent all the same. The audience were captivated.

"Is it also true, Ms. Granger, that a house elf freed by Mr. Lucius Malfoy here was the cause of your rescue? Indeed, that he sacrificed his life to save you?"

Technically, he was correct. Mr. Malfoy had indeed mistakenly freed Dobby years ago. This was not going as anticipated, to say the least. Kingsley looked at her, a hint of panic across his features. He clearly did not have a plan, and was very much looking toward her for a solution. Idiot. He was going to catch hell for this. Rosier had turned to the Wizengamot once more.

"The Ministry of Magic collapsed, and was overtaken by the Death Eaters and their leader. During this time, many laws were passed. Principle among them were laws determining muggleborns as subhuman, and legalising membership and service to He Who Must Not Be Named. It was during this time that the acts Mr. Lucius Malfoy stands accused of were committed. I move to have this case thrown out, due to the legitimacy of these behaviours under Wizarding Law at the time of their occurrence. Miss Granger, do you agree?"

Every face in the chamber was one of shock and unbridled alarm. This would set a precedent sure to undermine countless convictions already obtained, and would return any number of deranged individuals back to Wizarding Britain. It couldn't happen. She could not allow this to happen. No matter the consequences for her. Whatever it took. She looked at Lucius Malfoy, facing the room, long hair tucked away from his neck. His neck. The tattoo. Dangerous game, if she played it. But what was the alternative? She felt her brain spark with energy, and the word fell out of her mouth before she was truly aware of it.

"No."

For the first time, Rosier took an unexpected pause. He raised an eyebrow, and repeated his question.

"No, I do not agree. You are incorrect."

"You must not confuse your emotions for the law, Ms. Granger."

"I am not. You are legally incorrect."

Kingsley sat, gaping at her, face contorted with the power of will. Will that Hermione Granger was right. Will that Rosier was about to be spectacularly undermined. Will that this day would soon be over and could be forgotten about without consequence. His voice boomed out, asking her to expand on why Rosier was wrong. Every eye was on her.

"There are both chronological and constitutional issues with your argument, both of which stand to make Mr. Malfoy here responsible for the crimes he stands accused of today. I will begin with the chronological. Three years ago, Mr. Malfoy was here in the Ministry duelling with myself and Harry Potter for control of a prophecy on the orders of Voldemort. He was prosecuted successfully for attempted murder, as well as his membership of an illegal organisation at this time. He retained and responded to the Dark Mark on his left forearm consistently since the return of Voldemort four years ago, doing so regularly prior to the fall of the Ministry. He then illegally broke out of Azkaban, again prior to the fall of the Ministry, and allowed Voldemort to use his home as a headquarters. Lucius Malfoy did not complete his sentence, and today sits here as a captured criminal who must be returned to prison on the existing life sentence which applies to him at the very least. He must be prosecuted for that escape, and continue his sentence for the crimes he has been proven guilty of."

Silence. She took a moment to take in the Wizengamot ahead of her, sparing a second for the two wizards immediately ahead of her, and continued.

"I will turn to the constitutional issue with your argument, Mr. Rosier. The Ministry fell not in an election, not in an agreed upon handover of power. It was a coup, masterminded greatly by Mr. Malfoy here. In both British and International law, a coup d'état has no validity, legitimacy and legislative power unless that government comes to be effective, as well as internationally accepted over time. The Ministry under Thicknesse did not meet these conditions. It will not do so, either, it has already failed. The pre-existing legal system stands; before, then and now. That includes the laws concerning membership of proscribed organisations, anti-discrimination requirements and all of the countless other accusations Mr. Malfoy faces in this trial."

Rosier's russet eyes took her in, and she looked toward the Wizengamot purposefully before she drowned in them.

"So no, Mr. Rosier, I do not agree. Time does not agree. The law does not agree. Mr. Malfoy must face trial for the accusations set forth against him, and regardless of outcome, must be returned to Azkaban to continue his life sentence for the offences he has already been found guilty of within this very room."

Kingsley's face lit up as he animatedly took the floor once more, keen to ride on the waves of her response. Rosier sat down, ignoring the petulant glares of his client in favour of drinking in more of the young witch who had just undermined his well-practiced move to dismiss the case. Bitch. He would have to hire her. There was nothing else for it.

Having returned later than expected from the Ministry, Hermione wanted somewhere to work. She was determined to see what else she could unearth about the Ministry's failure to enact change in the wake of so much sacrifice. What she had read so far was hardly inspiring, Hogwarts was clearly not alone in its failure to embrace change. She made her way down to the library, knowing it would be close to empty. She sought out her preferred table, a large desk in a shadowy corner where the scent of ancient books was at its most beguiling. She rounded the last shelves and made to place her cloak over the chair, only to find the table occupied. This had never happened before. With anyone, let alone him.

She had spent all too much time in proximity to his father, in less than appealing circumstances, and wasn't sure of how she would be received by Malfoy. They had not interacted since the gardening incident, and she hadn't heard any complaints about the shirt she had ordered for him. He would no doubt not want to be near her again. She had practically forced herself on him, after all. Yet, turning to leave him to it, her slim wrist was caught in his large calloused hand. A very familiar hand. Her stomach pulsed, sharply like a connected circuit. Their eyes met momentarily, his hand still gripping her arm. She felt her stomach pulse again, a fearful undercurrent.

A chair scraped the floor, pushed out by Malfoy's foot, and she took the seat opposite him. He did not speak. Nor did she. Instead, she took out the duplicated papers and began to carefully organise them. Her interest in the task soon overwhelmed her caution of her tablemate, and she failed to notice his eyes on her. With a lazy flick of his wand, he produced a glowing lantern for them to work from as the night took hold. She had been straining her eyes for several minutes, yet had shown no initiative. Was she a witch or not? She seemingly did not notice, let alone thank him for his efforts. Strange, petulant girl. He continued reading his book, the newest Lukas Karuzos release.

She was fidgeting, a little, as the night wore on. It was past eleven now. Malfoy had been reading a particularly interesting book, one she certainly would have discussed with any other person. Not him. The situation of her enforced placement at the same table was peculiar enough, without the addition of any genial debate. He mustn't know. Regardless of the turbulent history of the father and son, he certainly wouldn't have kept her company if he knew she had given damning evidence that would invariably lead to a further life sentence in Azkaban today. Sitting here with him, like this, was false. She was many things, had acted questionably over the last few years, but she was an honest person. Shit. She took a deep breath. This had the potential of being explosive, but she was certain it was the right thing to do.

"Malfoy." She began, "I'm not sure how closely you follow your father's life now, but I need to be honest. Today, I…"

"Did the right thing," he finished, interrupting what he saw was going to be a prolonged and altogether superfluous monologue.

Her features were invaded by surprise, her soft, dusky pink lips opening slightly in an almost flawless circle. She had undoubtedly anticipated a more violent reaction to her evidence at the trial. He supposed that it was not an unreasonable assumption, given the portrayal of their relationship he had allowed her over the years. It was an assumption all the same. He, of course, was kept informed of the progress of his father's trial. Her stomach hummed again, as she looked into his eyes, determined to confirm she hadn't misheard him.

"I did?"

"You did."

They returned to their respective reading for some time, until a thunderous clatter of the library door had her shoving the papers into her satchel and making for the exit as Harry appeared in the library to collect her. Malfoy couldn't help but notice the light touch of his lips on her forehead, the familiar way he took her satchel on his own shoulder, and perhaps most nauseatingly of all, the familiar watch strapped to the wrist of the hand he rested easily on the small of her lower back. Malfoy slammed Karuzos on the table.

He would do no more reading tonight.


	13. Invitations

Invitations

The narrow, rickety staircase swivelled toward the Head's Common Room. There was nothing extraordinary about that. However, the ensnared First Year anxiously yelping as he was swept across the air was more uncommon by this time in the academic year. Hermione watched, forced to wait for the steps to come to a juddering halt before she could help him. Wide-eyed, the boy's cheeks reddened in mortification as he was approached by the Head Girl. His foot was lodged firmly in the vanishing step. Hermione raised an eyebrow, not unkindly, and offered her arm to him. Not quite understanding, he gripped her wrist.

"Carpe Retractum," she said clearly, pointing her wand toward the boy's ankle.

Perhaps he would take note of the spell, she rather suspected this might not be first or last time he would end up in this position. His clasp sweaty on her forearm, he looked down at his foot, now free, before returning to Hermione. Apparently realising he was still holding on to her, he stepped back, almost toppling down the stairs.

"Do you have History of Magic right now?"

He nodded nervously, his hand now clutching the bannister to avoid falling down. Hermione smiled. The boy was a Hufflepuff, though she couldn't help but recognise a touch of Neville about him. The early years, of course. She recalled them fondly. Simpler times. She pointed him in the right direction, only realising when he hesitated that not only was he quite likely to get lost again but also wary of receiving a detention for his lateness. Determined to deliver him safely, and to deprive Filch of an unnecessary extra pair of hands, Hermione opted to walk with him to the classroom.

Classroom 4F was peculiarly loud. Suspiciously so, for what even she knew to be a slightly dull class. Not that she would admit it aloud, of course. Standing in the doorway, she paused, the rather chubby boy tucked behind her as if afraid of what had puzzled her. From her position, she could see Professor Binns' head curled over on his desk atop a dusty yellowed book. So deeply asleep was the Professor that a spectral dribble extended from his mouth to the table top, where it failed to leave a puddle or mark. Oh dear. The students fell into an urgent hush as they noted the Head Girl at the door. Stepping into the room, the First Year made his way to his seat, and sat down. His footsteps were the only thing that could be heard in the chamber. The blackboard behind her was empty. Apparently, the lesson had not even begun. Every eye in the room on her, she stepped forward and asked what they were currently studying. No keen answer was forthcoming. No textbooks on the tables either. The boy, Thomas Emeric, as she had found out, rose his hand to speak. Apparently, his escort had done some good to his confidence.

"Miss, we've finished the Gargoyle Strike of 1911. We don't know what happens afterwards."

Afterwards? Brain beginning to whirr, she recalled only going backwards after the wildcat strike. Yes, she knew they meant next in the curriculum, but she couldn't recall going beyond 1911 in the five years of class they'd had. Yes, the Goblin Rebellions were perhaps never more important than today, but so were the foundations of what had only come to an end last year. She nervously glanced toward the door. There was no one there, and Professor Binns hadn't stirred. She knew she should wake him, or fetch a different professor, but really what harm would it do? It was one class. It was educational. Very much so.

"Just Hermione is fine. That's a good question. Perhaps, as a one off, of course, we could map out the events that bring us from the Gargoyle Strike to the present day?"

The class was bewitched, even the Slytherins, as she charmed the chalk and began. The tale was spun with ease, vivid in its intricacy. The failure to improve working conditions and subsequent limitations on unionising occurred on a backdrop of worsening economic conditions worldwide. The historically typical emergence of extremist beliefs, such as those of the Acolytes, surprised the world. The division of Wizarding society, and the fall of Grindelwald. The lacking response to repair the very socioeconomic issues that resulted in the rise of the Global Wizarding World, in Britain and beyond, leading to the subsequent radicalisation of Tom Riddle and the recruitment of Death Eater sleeper cells across Europe entrenched in the very same principles of Social Darwinism. The cult of violence in open war, and the repeated failure to address the root causes, before the return of Voldemort. The students were absolute in their focus, for perhaps the first time in living memory. A timid hand rose again. Thomas. Perhaps he wasn't as shy as she'd pegged him for.

"So, Miss, how have the causes been addressed now? To stop it happening again?"

Silence. Evidently his classmates were as intrigued by the sudden boldness of the boy as he himself was, if the Gryffindor red of his cheeks and neck was anything to go by. It was a good question, a valid question, and one that couldn't be answered with any affirmative response. Damn. They were only eleven. It wouldn't do to frighten them.

"It's been less than six months. We haven't made much use of those months so far. What would your ideas be?" As her head shifted to take in all of the students, she saw a familiar redhead at the entrance to the classroom, "Pair up, and write a parchment on what you think has to change to address the causes we discussed."

Arthur Weasley stepped into the classroom, barely registering the snoring Professor Binns at the desk. He looked over the class, who were keenly settling down into their task, discussions focused with a sprinkle of awe. The young witch had a certain flair for commanding an audience, one Arthur hadn't quite expected her to hold.

"Well, you certainly kept them out of trouble. I meant to ask; would you mind helping me out in Muggle Studies on Saturday? Are you feeling well enough now? I'd like to show them Muggle technology so a second pair of hands would be great."

Hermione faltered. Not only was that class sprung upon her by McGonagall, but Zabini was there. It was a classroom though. Malfoy would be there. What? Since when did Malfoy's presence serve to make her safer? Well, he had so far. But it wasn't to be relied on. He needed to get out of her head. As if sensing her concern, Arthur spoke up once again.

"I'll be there, of course, and you might find it interesting to see how far they've come. An extra pair of eyes, that's all."

That was true. Seeing if any progress had indeed been made would be valuable, but the presence of Arthur Weasley didn't quell her fears. Out of excuses, however, she acquiesced. He ushered her out of the classroom once he had her agreement, and she realised that the parchments were unlikely to ever see the light of day again. Damn it. All she could hope was that she had made them think on it, perhaps a little more than they would think under Professor Binns' tutelage.

It had been a long afternoon, and Hermione was grateful to finally return to her rooms. She heard the familiar rush of water from the tap, and a soft waft of clary sage reached her nostrils. Harry was running a bath. Stress bathing was never a good sign. Quietly entering the bedroom, so as not to spook him, she noted an unfurled piece of parchment resting atop the chest of drawers. Kingsley Shacklebolt, the one and only, in need of a new Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement next year. She practically snorted aloud; no appointment would lend the absolute credibility to the administration like Harry. Credibility they urgently needed. How perfect, for the Ministry. Perhaps not so much for Harry.

It was true that he had always expressed a desire to become an Auror, when Voldemort was at large. His life was absolutely dictated by dark wizards, almost as though he may as well receive a salary for the constant fight to survive. That wasn't the situation now. Harry had survived, he didn't need the support of trained aurors in the field. The field was gone. He had a chance to thrive now. Away from that. Oh, Harry. Hermione brushed her fingertip softly over his name, fighting was all he had ever really known. She heard the water flow shut off, and a splash as he settled into the tub. Shrugging off her robe and walking over, she lightly tapped on the door, smiling softly as he asked her to come in.

She could immediately see the afternoon bathing was much needed. His strong brow was wrinkled, darkened eyes hooded as if he wished the light would go away. His jet-black hair was chaotic from running his hands through it, controlled only by the drenching he'd received as he submerged himself. Now sitting, lounged against the soft curve of the bath, water droplets scuttled down his neck: slow, hot and clear. All the way down his broad shoulders, hard and tensed. His chest too, resolute despite the heavy breaths he took. She waved her wand to shut out the light. The warm glow of the candles took hold. Harry visibly relaxed in the softened light. Instead of conjuring a chair, she knelt next to the bath, so she was at his height.

She reached out to guide his head to face her, fingers light on his hard jawline. He turned, placing his wet hand over hers. Their fingers intertwined as he shifted their hands to his chest, holding her against his heart. No one broke the silence, it was enough, in that moment. Together. Wand pointed toward him with her right hand, their eyes met as she spoke.

"Legilimens."

For a moment, she thought she had been unsuccessful, or unwanted. As if he had shielded against her. All she saw was herself, kneeling. A version of herself she didn't quite recognise: her eyes sparkling in the glow of the candles, her lips smooth and full, her slim fingers decisive on his. For a second, she wavered, ready to withdraw and try again. No. She was seeing herself. His mind, on her. Herself in his eyes. Overwhelmed, she pushed slightly further. Reading the scroll from Kingsley, the harsh pang of defeat in his chest. Inevitability and wretched acceptance. She pushed against it, urging it away and easing toward reinforcing a vague Scottish boy: "… two beaters, one snitch, one seeker." Yes. Relax Harry. Good. Then another weight of exhausted expectation, Ron asking where the Horcruxes are. Looking to Harry for an impossible answer. Determined, she pushed it back too, reaching out toward something unexpected. A birthday cake, large and sticky chocolate, green and pink icing. Unexpected joy. Then it was her again, beautiful to him, her hand still against his chest. Slow beats now, calm, at peace.

She withdrew gently, and saw his eyes had closed. Tired. She was too. Better though. Much better. His shoulders relaxed and he lent forward to press his damp forehead against hers. By the time either moved, the water droplets landing on Hermione's arm were cool and Harry's black hair was dry again. She reached to get him a towel, averting her eyes as he stood and wrapped it around himself, tying the Peshtemal firmly around his waist. Double checking the knot, then stepping out of the bath. As she turned, he wrapped his arms around her waist and held her firmly against him. Looking at themselves in the mirror, she felt his lips pressed against her temple as the candle flickered out.

She had looked… nice in his eyes, she pondered, as Harry bid her farewell at the library doors with a promise to retrieve her later after Quidditch. She pushed through, into the now-dimmed reading room. She felt almost appealing as she made her way toward her favoured table. Confident enough to barely falter when she encountered a lean frame with platinum hair sat in her seat. Again. Again, the chair opposite him scraped on the flagstone ground, more quietly this time. She took the hint, and settled in opposite Malfoy. She was beautiful, to one person at least. Interesting. Pushing aside the thoughts as best she could, she retrieved the Ministry papers from her bag and began.

Looking up, Malfoy drank in the resolute focus she managed. The same documents as last time, then. What held her attention so? She was confident, as she took each section and annotated them, making notes on a separate scroll. She had done this for years, of course, he had seen it. In classes. From across the Hall. Up close, it was hypnotic, the easy rhythm she fell into. Well-practised, he supposed. As she worked, her neck twisted slightly and her soft curls nudged forward with each turn of the page. He was so close he could tuck the tendril back behind her ear. No. He restrained himself. After five pages, she did it herself. Nimble fingers, gentle and graceful. He had to stop this. He forced himself back to the floating words in the essay he was reviewing. Something about Dittany. Yes. Dittany.

"Granger. What are you doing?"

She looked up, startled by his voice, low as it was in the dark alcove they sat within. Malfoy wanted to know what she was doing. She couldn't tell the truth, of course, but what to say? Reviewing Ministry policies. Yes, that would do. Vague, honest, reasonably interesting. Her response met with his satisfaction, apparently, as his lips curled into a shadow of the familiar smirk she'd grown used to over the years. He was clearly working on Slughorn's essay, if the books around him were anything to go by. Straining her eyes, she took in some of the words on the parchment. He surprised her. Again. By raising an eyebrow and twisting the paper around so she could read it more easily. His handwriting was sharply narrow in both spacing and loops, elongated pointed ascenders and meticulously cursive. She read along, nodding in approval at his points. Malfoy felt surprisingly comfortable with her reviewing his work.

"It's… it's good. Very good. I saw the green vapour puffs from the shredded dittany last lesson. Bottling it for children is an intriguing application. Wizards are far less adept at handling gaseous matter for some reason."

She surprised him. Intriguing. He wasn't the intriguing one, that was for sure. Inhaling vapours would be far easier for a child than dittany-based potions, more exact than the application of the leaf, less stinging than the essence droplets within the wound. He knew first-hand how difficult it had been for his mother to heal him as a young boy. He trembled slightly, remembering how he had vomited up potions as his mother sought to heal the gashes his father's whip had left on his thighs. He met her eyes, typical Gryffindor, brimming with concern at his faraway look. Typical her. Merlin, she was lovely when she was worried. Stop. Stop it. He reached out to take his essay back, brushing his hand on hers accidentally. Accidentally, yes. Maybe. Well, the touch was an accident. Truly. The slight lingering was… less so.

Hermione felt the glancing of his hand on her fingertips. It made her feel. Feel like a woman. She fought the urging blush that was no doubt gracing her cheeks. She wanted to look at him. Desperately. Did she dare? To look and absorb the confused dislike in his eyes? His hand was warm, dry and supple, slender. Different to the hands that had held hers hours before. They were there a second more than needed to take back his essay. Two seconds perhaps. Or was it all in her head? Their eyes finally met, and there was none of the rejection that she had anticipated. The very opposite: his glittering pale eyes were almost open, like a new book aching to be read. She looked away, back toward her papers, muddled and slightly uneasy. Her rhythm, lost. A heavy footfall saved her.

"Malfoy." Harry nodded toward the now elegantly reclined blonde man, "'Mione, are you ready? I can wait if you want."

For a millisecond, she rather did want that. No. Terrible idea. Hermione gathered her papers, diligently setting them neatly within her satchel. Daring to shoot Malfoy a half smile as she left, he surprised her one last time. He returned it, not with his lips, not in front of Harry, but with those maddeningly open eyes. Harry took her arm in his, and they strolled up toward their rooms. His hair was windswept, and his body free of the tension that had plagued him. Quidditch. It had always freed him. Always. In his other hand, was a wrapped cake. Rich, dense and with a luxuriating bitterness. Chocolate. Dark Chocolate. Professor Lupin's favourite.

Smiling fondly, she nudged her head against his chest and settled into a comfortable walking pace. _Open, glittering, intriguing eyes. Stop it._ Harry was telling her about Winky, in the Kitchens. She'd been baking something, something she would recognise. Curiosity piqued, they chatted about the Hogwarts' elves, numbers sadly depleted since the days of the Carrows. _Eyes that made her feel something. Stop. Stop. _Making their way into the common room, she saw Neville sat there, in the armchair. Taking a seat on the sofa, Harry began cutting the cake. She smiled as she realised where he had gotten the idea: the icing, the same as the memory of Hagrid's unexpected arrival. She grinned, and took the slice of cake Harry offered. Neville and Harry had both readily tucked into their own slices.

_The same way Harry's hands had. Stop it. Stop it Hermione. Stop._ She pushed the fork into it, gliding through the layers. Now dirtied with dense crumb, silky buttercream and the saccharine pink icing, she tasted it. Really tasted it. Resting it on her tongue, taking in the opulent flavours, before allowing herself to swallow. She hadn't had cake for a long time. She couldn't remember. When she finally looked up, eyelids quivering with pleasure, she noticed even more momentous joy on the faces of Harry and Neville. Joy that was apparently directed at her. Strange. Joy that didn't dissipate as she finished the cake, the type of happiness they had almost forgotten. Joy that she felt comfortable remembering, for the first time in a while.


	14. Mistaken

Mistaken

Hermione spent Saturday morning in the window seat, her willowy legs stretched out languidly between Harry's thighs, who sat opposite her. Each in their pajamas, she found herself in and out of his mind all morning. He claimed his stress was the impending game against Ravenclaw, but given Kinglsey's letter was an ongoing fixture in the memories needing to be locked away, she suspected he was more than a little unsure about his life post-Hogwarts. Word had apparently spread about the 'appointment', to which he had not yet replied, and Ginny had made good use of meal times to crow about 'her Harry's' new job. Uncomfortable, to say the least. Infuriating, though she had remained tight lipped. Harry was his own man. He deserved that freedom, given the struggle he'd endured to achieve it.

Despite that, while in his mind, she was incessantly confronted with the dread he held for an imagined first day, second day, one year in the new job. It seemed that the simplicity of asking him to fulfill it, the additional public pressure, had created an ostensive commitment. His future stolen before he could conceive of it. Almost as painful were the flashes of stolen moments with Ginny, edges clouded with regret and disappointment. Happiness once, but no more. He was a tool, improperly and ineffectively wielded at times, but a tool all the same. He helped others achieve their goals, so why bother setting his own? Flashes of early schooldays, where an enormous boy asked his parents to stop Harry playing football. He never played again, and could instead only watch as the freedom of the chase was taken from him. Hermione fought to maintain composure, she mustn't be angry in his mind, mustn't damage him. She set to work.

Easing out old, happier memories, she shaped them around the others. Not all happy ones, not necessarily. Strength was important, relevance too, thoughts that showed him another way. Dumbledore's betrayal of Snape, the anger of the Potions master upon discovering Harry was not to live. The laughter they had shared over his wet kiss with Cho, a reminder that not every kiss was the start of something eternal. Chasing Neville's Remembrall, creating his own path to the Quidditch team. Unstoppable. Not removing the memories of his regret, sadness, the toxic relationships that wouldn't go away; but building prisons for them, ensuring they couldn't grow too big. They would not be allowed to seize the space. He could create his own memories for that. Happier ones, freer ones, she dared hope.

When she wasn't carefully constructing barriers within his head, repairing and restructuring the emptiness left after the Horcrux within him was destroyed, she flicked through the curriculum Arthur had sent her for the course. It was uninspiring, focusing far more on the oddities of Muggle culture than creating any real parallels or basis for respect and tolerance. Tame. She didn't have the energy to be surprised. It wasn't a shock; it was precisely what Arthur had done his whole life. Of course, he didn't hate Muggles, but he hadn't interacted with them, not really. He merely enjoyed their technology and processes. He found Muggles quaint and endearing, and in its own way, that was disrespectful.

Knowing it was time to get dressed, she eased herself away from Harry's grasp. He tugged lightly but insistently on her ankle, despite knowing she had to go. His intermittent foot rubs had become a welcome distraction until he would tickle her and she would retract her legs and give him a threatening look. He never learned. Laughing, she ventured to the bathroom and ran a steaming shower.

Having decided the butterflies of waiting were preferable to the embarrassment of walking in after the students arrived, Hermione found herself in the classroom alongside Arthur a good ten minutes before the lesson was due to begin. The conversion of the third-floor corridor was unremarkable to all except those who had seen its previous incarnation. The classroom was simple, flagstone floor with no trapdoor in sight, and the same benches and walnut desks as in the rest of the castle. It was simply decorated, no exciting objects on the wall, not even having the pleasant scent of overflowing bookshelves that 4F held. Arthur, however, had much more on his mind over the summer than redecorating.

As Professor Weasley went to prepare the other classroom, she noted that the front row of desks was pushed together, a telephone sitting on the left hand side. It was not the best the Muggle world had to offer. Black and grey plastic, with a thick, spiraled black cord connecting the unit to the mouthpiece. Large round buttons, white and a screen that wasn't functional given the phones were entirely missing their plugs. Of course, with the heavy presence of magic at Hogwarts, they could not hope to operate the telephones without charms, the electrical interference could cause an explosion. Hermione vividly recalled a guilty third year memory of Lavender Brown causing a small fire with a pair of smuggled straighteners.

She was grateful that Arthur returned just as Pansy arrived to the classroom. She had no inclination to be confronted with Zabini on her own. This was a favour to Arthur, no more and no less. Most of the students followed Pansy in, and fell into quiet discussions while eyeing the Head Girl carefully. She wasn't surprised. She felt as though she had wandered -into the lion's den. Or perhaps the serpent pit would be more accurate. Malfoy arrived last, cutting it fine, and the class began.

"Today, as promised, you are going to have the opportunity to use some of the most exciting Muggle technology. It's all rather ingenious, but it allows them to have instant conversations. Every Muggle is assigned a code, and using a device called a telephone, they may enter the code of the person they wish to speak to. The telephone makes a ringing noise, and the other person is alerted to the need to talk. They use the mouthpiece to speak into, and they are able to hear one another. It's all rather interesting, and certainly less draining that casting a Patronus."

Arthur's style was excitable, and factual, but again stuck to the idiosyncrasies of the Muggle world, as opposed to their admirable ability to adapt and advance. A lost opportunity, surely. The class, for what is was worth, were paying attention with several exceptions. Millicent Bulstrode and Gregory Goyle looked positively dead to the world at the back of the room. Zabini looked bored, though his dark eyes glittered seriously when he noticed Hermione looking at him. Theo Nott seemed genuinely interested, staring over at the telephone, as if he wanted to inspect it more closely. Eighteen years old and their first time encountering something so simple. She shook her head, what a weird moment, for all of them.

"…we will divide into groups, and some of us will go into a separate room. We'll practice phoning each other back and forth. So," he glanced around the room, noticing the least interested students immediately, "Mr. Goyle, Ms. Bulstrode, Mr. Nott and Ms. Greengrass with me please. Mr. Malfoy, Ms. Parkinson and Mr. Zabini, you can stay here with Hermione."

With a confident smile, he made to leave the classroom, completely missing the panic written across Hermione's face. He was leaving her alone. The one assurance she had required to help him out, and he'd abandoned it immediately. Yes, she knew he couldn't possibly have any knowledge of why being in a classroom with Zabini was a bad idea, but he had promised her. Sighing, she waited for the three Slytherins to come to the front desk, and began explaining how to dial.

Pansy took control, eager to see what it sounded like. Zabini was standing at the edge of the table, under the watchful eye of Malfoy. Thank Merlin he was there. _No. Stop it. Do not rely on him._ As they got into the swing of things, she was able to show them how to put the phone on speaker, similar to a Sonorous Charm. Even Malfoy had been quite impressed with that. Pansy even contributed some good questions, like the potential to have more than two people in a conversation. Zabini participated once as the dialer, refusing to hold the mouthpiece, after Hermione was unable to vouch for the origin of the telephone.

In the other room, it was clear that the less academically gifted Slytherins were suffering. After Millicent was told to stop screaming into the phone by an angry Theo, and Goyle's fourth consecutive accidental hang up, Arthur had asked Hermione's group to do the dialing again. Hermione leant forward to end the call such that Pansy could start again, showing her how you can hang up by touching the hook switch without putting the mouthpiece back in the cradle. Pansy tried hanging up several times herself. It was then that Hermione took an in-breath, feeling coldness on her. Not from the air, it was warm in the classroom, but from a large hand placed on her inner left thigh. Above the line of her skirt, a skirt that suddenly didn't feel the same anymore, as though it was dislodged. The hand gripped, squeezing relentlessly.

Zabini's low voice whispered, as Malfoy awkwardly spoke on the phone. To Goyle, she suspected, if the loud grunts were anything to go by, "Been gorging yourself, Granger? Your thighs are flabby. You disgusting pig."

Her stomach pulsed. Disgusting. That's what she was. A disgusting pig. Pain, just what she deserved. It was that cake, the cake she'd had with Harry and Neville. Fuck. Why had she done that? He was pulling at the skin now with vigour, she tried to remain silent, but he was tearing at the very highest point of her leg with his nails. She desperately didn't want the other two to notice what was happening, she could feel the back of her skirt gathered at her waist, exposing her behind to the room if anyone walked behind her. In a classroom, bent over and exposed. She must have looked repulsive. Bared as the bulky, ugly person she was. How humiliating. Anything to avoid Malfoy seeing that. Quiet. Don't make a sound. Pain, so much pain. Don't make a noise, or everyone will see your fat legs. Fat, disgusting legs. Like a pig. He squeezed again, and she felt the familiar tear as his nails broke her skin. Eventually, as a thick finger pushed roughly against her most private place, through her underwear, she took an audible inbreath. No, she would not be made to be even more sordid than she already was. For a second, she thought it an accident, but his finger pressed firmly against her… her bum again, and she let out a shocked sob.

Immediately, Malfoy looked up at her, and noticed the tears gathered in her eyes. The harsh heat of her cheeks. A blush of shame, not warmth. The position of Zabini with one forearm not visible beneath the table. Dropping the phone, his arms were across the table and grabbing at Zabini. Hard enough to drag him away from Hermione, the desk was shoved to one side near a surprised Pansy. The two men could reach each other now, and both tore into the fight. Neither reached for their wands, instead seeking to inflict maximum damage with their fists. A sharp blow to the chin from Zabini led to an animalistic roar from Malfoy, who shoved his housemate against the wall and drew his hands around his neck, wringing them tightly.

Hermione wanted to drag him away, wanted to intervene, wanted to help. Yes. Head Girl. Help. But instead of her hands reaching forward to pull Malfoy off, they were on her stomach, gripping her tummy as hard as she could. Disgusting. Fat pig. Overwhelmed with humiliation and self-hatred, she dug her nails in. She couldn't breathe. Harder. Harder. Eyes squeezed shut, willing her brain to forget the last few minutes. It was Pansy who pulled Malfoy off, sending him crashing to the floor as Zabini took heaving gasps and pressed his hands against his reddened, rapidly bruising throat. Malfoy was the first to recover, striding over to Hermione, his intense eyes searching hers. She felt so small in that moment, unable to bring herself to wipe away the tear that had started to run down her cheek. She tugged at the hem of her skirt, a mannerism that wasn't lost on him, and it was as though he exploded with anger.

"You depraved piece of shit," he growled, ready to attack.

Zabini grinned, perfectly white and sharp. He looked Malfoy directly in the eyes, and playfully whispered, "She loves it. She took it at your house, remember? She needs it."

Zabini began to laugh, and Malfoy pushed Hermione behind him. Pansy's eyes were wide, appalled and confused by the path class had taken. Just as Malfoy drew his wand, Arthur Weasley returned to the classroom, bumbling in his confusion at the apparent row and ire between the two young men. Attempting to reassert his authority, he demanded to know what was going on, insisting they sat down. The other students returned to the room, as he went ignored. He evidently didn't register the Head Girl, almost entirely obscured behind the emboldened Malfoy heir, so enormous was he in his wrath. An anger that rounded on the teacher, every delicate feature tensed, Malfoy embodying the snarling caricature of an aristocrat. And snarl he did, furious grey eyes and rage-filled words eloquently escaping his mouth.

"Do not presume to tell me what to do. You created this, you left, and it's confirmed what I've always known. You truly are the most disgraceful form of traitor, Weasley."

A deafening hush befell the classroom, every breath mutely hitched, even the sunlight frozen in disbelief.

"You are going home, Mr. Malfoy. Even I am surprised by how quickly you have fallen back on your elitism. Make your way to the Headmistress' Office. Now."

Malfoy turned his face away at the end of the very first clause, as though slapped, effectively shielding him from the stares of his peers. He stalked out of the classroom, barely hearing the final words of the teacher, though Hermione very much doubted he was going compliantly to his own expulsion. Before Arthur was able to regain any semblance of control, she slipped out of the room, and swiftly made her way downstairs. Far away. As far as she could get away from that room. From them. From him. She should go to McGonagall to explain. And she would. But first, him. She had to find him.

She did, almost at the extent of her endurance: her stomach throbbed, her thigh ached and her humiliation burned, but finally, he was there. He cut a solitary figure on the expanse of the Quidditch pitch. Even from a distance, even now, he was every inch a Malfoy. Strength even in his anxiety, elegant in his frustration, sanctified in his sorrow. He sat with his back to the stands, on the grass by the dressing rooms. Had she not known better, she would have thought him fixated on the goalposts above, but she rather suspected his mind was much further away. His position was not unlike a child: his long arms wrapped around his knees, as though bracing for an impact. She supposed that, in a way, he was doing just that. She had pitied him before now. At Malfoy Manor. At Hogwarts, even early on. Now she knew him, Professor Snape's words ringing endlessly around the pitch, her heart ached for him. Ached as if it would split in half. Sins of the father. She sat next to him, close enough that their thighs brushed. The crackle of their closeness the only blot on their stillness. His stillness. There they sat, looking skyward, just as she and Harry had weeks ago.

Beyond the hoops, the afternoon was fast slipping away. The sun no longer visible, its only remnants a blaze of Tyrian dusk slashed with the creeping claret of late-night Malbec and stolen secrets, hazy still with torn clouds of a looming Winter. Tapestry fresh, awaiting the paint of a shimmering cacophony of stars. If only life was so easy. A new page in a battered book, a third chance, because the world wasn't ready for the second one. She drew her arms around him, her fingers failing to meet at either end, holding him tightly. Leaning forward, she spoke calmly into his ear, straining to make the distance with his considerably taller frame.

"You're not going home. You're not going anywhere. You're going to stay at Hogwarts, watch Quidditch tomorrow, steal my chair in the library without a hint of remorse. Take it from somebody who understands, who really understands, that you, Malfoy; you do not allow the prejudice of others to define your path."

The only response he gave; throaty, baritone yet almost pleading, "Draco. Please. Draco, tonight, at least."

"Draco."

There they stayed. Until the biting chill of nightfall conquered her body, and she knew her embrace could not be providing him warmth. Yet he didn't move. She lightly rubbed her hands across his chest, the only form of comfort she could provide in that moment. He remained there, and though she didn't know it, her fingers were dancing across his heart. Hope, oh, how he hoped. The last refuge of a defeated man. He hoped the dance would never stop.


	15. Red

Red

Hermione was exhausted. Harry had been curled up fast asleep on the armchair when she returned in the small hours of the morning, the Marauder's Map open on the table. He had known where she was then, and to his credit he hadn't interrogated her when they woke. Grateful for small mercies, she knew she had to focus, but couldn't stop replaying the moment Draco's hand had reached out and taken hers as they left the pitch. Disillusionment. Invisibility was empowering to say the least. Enough that she had taken his other hand for a moment, squeezing them gently in hers, just before she entered her rooms. He hadn't pulled away, if anything, he had ever so slightly pulled her back to him as she moved to let go. It was the closest thing to magic she'd ever felt without a wand.

Harry walked with her to McGonagall's office on the way to breakfast, where she kissed him on the cheek and promised to see him at the match and cheer him on. He waited as she took a deep breath, and spoke the password: Peterbald. The Gargoyle turned, allowing her entry to the stairway. Harry only left when she had disappeared up the stairs. As she reached the final stone step, she took a moment to will the butterflies in her stomach to settle, before knocking on the door. It opened silently, and she entered. The Headmistress sat behind her desk, elevated in her severity. Her lips pursed. Hermione rather suspected she was expecting Draco instead.

"Yes, Miss Granger?"

Hermione hesitated, almost unsure where to begin. Her stomach still ached from the grip she'd punished herself with yesterday, but now it bubbled with apprehension too. She glanced toward the seat, but no invitation was forthcoming.

"I was hoping to speak to you about an incident that occurred in Professor Weasley's class yesterday. If I may, I believe that there may have been a significant misunderstanding. I'd like to help clarify things."

Lips thinning, a bad sign, but a wrinkle of interest flickered across the older woman's brow. She gestured toward the chair next to Hermione, who gratefully sat down. She let the silence sit between them for a few seconds, determined to allow the idea of there being a mistake settle in the air. Unfortunately, the concept didn't seem to synthesise particularly smoothly, and she noticed the stirring of the portraits behind the desk.

"I was of the understanding, Miss Granger, that what occurred yesterday in Professor Weasley's class was quite straightforward. I understand there were a number of witnesses, including yourself, to Mr. Malfoy's outburst. What is there to clarify?"

Hermione didn't believe for a second that any of the other students would have agreed to help indict Draco, regardless of their interpretation of what happened in class. There was no evident benefit to any of them, except perhaps Zabini, in him being expelled, and all had plenty to lose. Nevertheless, she had an invitation to explain, and that was valuable.

"Draco Malfoy did call Mr. Weasley a traitor, that's true. However similar that phrase may be to things he's said in the past, things I've heard him say myself, I know for a fact that he didn't mean that Mr. Weasley was treacherous to his blood status." Hermione swallowed before proceeding, feeling Professor Snape's obsidian eyes boring into her, "Draco Malfoy meant that Mr. Weasley had betrayed me, by leaving me on my own with students after promising not to do so."

Confusion was not something that graced Professor McGonagall's face often. The expression took several moments to form, as though the muscle memory was completely absent. The unspoken question hung in the room, silent, holding the attention of every Headmaster to date – including the purse-lipped woman who sat in front of Hermione.

"When I agreed to help Professor Weasley in yesterday's class, I did so because he had assured me he would be there. However, the class he planned meant he had to be in another room, and as a result I was left with a student I didn't wish to be around. An incident occurred, one I don't wish to escalate, that led to some anger."

"Miss Granger, clearly you do not wish for Mr. Malfoy to be close to you, so why speak up on his behalf? Exhibiting any manner of blood supremacy is a condition under which he can be dismissed from the school. While I am pleased that you have the honesty I expect from those of my house, sufficient to clarify that his remark was not about blood status, and I find myself believing your judgement on that, this is a straightforward way of avoiding Mr. Malfoy more permanently. Sometimes, as much as it pains me to admit it, behaving as a Slytherin can have… advantages."

"Draco Malfoy is not the student who I want to avoid. He protected me, in yesterday's class, from being harmed."

The Headmistress paused. Surprising, but that had narrowed the field significantly: Mr. Zabini or perhaps more likely, Ms. Parkinson, were causing sufficient concern for the Head Girl to seek to avoid them. A closer eye would be required. She hadn't known Hermione to be fearful of anything before. Yet perhaps she hadn't noticed, after all, it seemed Mr. Malfoy had changed somewhat significantly too. When it became clear that Hermione was not going to volunteer further information, the teacher leant forward, tilting her head slightly, as if drinking Hermione in, and posed an unexpected question.

"Tell me something, Miss Granger. In your first year at Hogwarts, I took five points from you for being foolish enough to believe you could overcome a mountain troll yourself. Was I correct to do so?"

Hermione had not anticipated the question, it seemed abstract in the extreme, and uncomfortable to say the least. She didn't want to critique Professor McGonagall's decision making, yet a refusal to answer the question was unlikely to soften her stance toward Draco. Either she highlighted a recklessness she had not had, or she admitted a mistruth she had told. Neither showed her in a good light.

"I wasn't seeking out the troll. I had been in the toilet crying, after I overheard a student speaking unkindly about me, and the troll found me there. I wasn't in attendance at the feast. Harry and Ron, they guessed where I would be when they heard there was a troll and attempted to rescue me. They succeeded, just about."

For a moment, Professor McGonagall was the kindly housemistress who had been such a strong mentor over the years. The tension between them, their ideals and approaches; it melted away. The Headmistress' posture had softened, and Hermione was suddenly struck by how much older the witch was than she had remembered. If she was exhausted, how must this woman who had lived through so much, even staying at Hogwarts last year, feel?

"Perhaps I should have guessed that. A true Gryffindor. I trust you, Hermione. I just hope you know what you're doing. Mr. Malfoy will serve two detentions with Professor Slughorn for his rudeness, and for failing to report to my office when instructed to do so. He will also write an apology to Professor Weasley. Regardless of the true meaning of his words, they are inappropriate. Thank you for bringing this to my attention."

On the grave of a lie, she was trusted. She caught Professor Snape's eye, and if she didn't know better, she could have sworn there was a note of approval there. Draco was not being sent home, back to that awful place. Two detentions, and an apology letter that would hurt his pride. That was all. While she had believed every word she'd spoken to him last night, and would have refused to allow him being sent home, she had felt so much smaller when she had actually been explaining it.

"We aren't at war anymore, Miss Granger. While you are a very capable Head Girl, there are some behaviours that can and should be dealt with by my staff. Think on it, please."

Dismissed, Hermione left the office. She had an hour before she was expected at the match, so ventured back to Arthur's third floor classroom. While he ordinarily returned home, she knew he would be attending the game to see Ron and Ginny play, and it was probably best to resolve the tension before classes started again the next day. As she approached the room, she was almost overcome by a deep desire to run away, her legs twitching. She heard a wireless playing quietly, and knocked gently on the door. She half-hoped he wouldn't hear.

"Come."

No such luck. She pushed the door back behind her, a narrow gap her only relief from the tight suffocation of her surroundings. Every step she took through the thick tar of memory toward the front of the classroom burned her. Burned her, drowned her, cut her. The wireless was sitting on the very desk she'd been leaning over. She could tell she'd been silent for too long, but it all seemed so very far away. _Fat pig. Holding his hand. Flabby thighs. His heavy robe holding them together. Talk, Hermione, talk._ Arthur was looking at her expectantly, through the fog. Thick fog, all in her head, but so heavy.

"Hermione? You disappeared yesterday. I was under the impression we'd agreed you would stay the whole class. Not the best impression for the other students really! It's a bit unlike you, I expected better."

The softness of his voice failed to cushion the sharpness of its content. That was unexpected. The last thing she'd anticipated. The room was so much warmer than it had been yesterday, cloying and crushing. The fiery anger of her heart was on her tongue, a black and filthy coal threatening to burn a hole if it wasn't spat out. And so she did.

"Mr. Weasley, you left me alone. You told me that you would be there, that was the condition under which I volunteered my time to help you, a condition you failed to uphold. Draco Malfoy is remaining at Hogwarts. He will complete his year, and he is remaining in this class. I've already spoken to Professor McGonagall."

She stepped back, just a little, to ease the gnawing claustrophobia. He refused the respite, and strode forward, so they were even closer than before. His usually soft, genial features were tensed and his jawline pulsed.

He didn't hold back, growling, "You interfered? Have you forgotten how many times he raised your own blood status Hermione? The fact it was scarred on your arm forever on the floor of his house? While he watched? Maybe you can forgive and forget, but I can't. I have lost enough to those people, because of blood status. My family have lost more than you could possibly understand. Or had you forgotten that? Forgotten him?"

She felt as though she'd been punched in the gut, winded, "I lost my parents, Mr. Weasley. I will never forget Fred. Ever. We have all lost people. But Malfoy didn't call you what you think. He was saying you betrayed me, not your fellow purebloods."

Arthur looked at her, the soft eyes she'd grown used to hardened, and his voice snapped back low and gruff, "If you think he could possibly care about you, Hermione, I'm afraid you're very much mistaken."

Her parents. Merlin, her parents. Every day, her life ached for them. Yet here she was, being told she hadn't known loss. She knew loss so heavy, so overwhelming it threatened to break her every day. She knew of Fred's loss too. Not as a parent, but as a friend, as a confidante, as a work partner. Late nights at the Burrow, sharing her modifications to the Jinx-Off line. His hands on her, softly massaging in balm to the black eye their telescope had delivered. The time he had asked why she'd ruined her teeth when they danced at Bill's wedding. A quiet appreciation, a mutual appreciation, gone now.

"He cares a damn sight more about me than you do. He protected me yesterday. Perhaps the worst impression set to your class was your failure to keep to your word. I trusted you, and in return you left me on my own. Even worse than that, when you finally realised something was wrong and you came back into what is supposed to be your classroom, you didn't even see what was happening. You let me down, again, just like you let them all down. You didn't support me at all, and now? Now I don't even know why I expected anything different. You never were willing to back me up, were you?"

Arthur recoiled as though he'd been slapped, but the loud noise hadn't come from Hermione. Her arms were safely by her sides. Both of them turned to the doorway as the wooden door clattered shut, a flash of red hair whipped around and heated footsteps echoed down the corridor. Clearly, they had been overhead by a Weasley. Only time would tell which one, and as the tears began to stream down Hermione's heated face, she wasn't sure she cared anymore.

"I have respected you all of my life," she sobbed, pressing her fingers to her cheeks to clear the tears, she turned on her heel, and left the man she'd once regarded so highly to contemplate her words. Angry tears now, angry at him, but angry at herself too. They were the first proper tears she'd shed since Zabini had degraded her in that room. Tears for her shame. Tears for the unfair criticism he'd thrown at her. Tears for the unwillingness of a supposedly tolerant man to step away from his biases. Tears for the easy dismissal she'd taken when that beetle had written lies about her. Tears for the happy summer memories at the Burrow, that would now always have a shadow.

She wasn't going to miss Harry's match for her own sadness, however, and after washing all of those tears away, she put on a shield of makeup and walked down to the pitch. Maroon scarf around her neck, forcing her to hold her head up high. Harry. She needed to be there to cheer for him, she had promised. Oh, how she cheered. Loud and fierce, as though the world depended on it. After all, right now, it felt like it did. Her housemates were overjoyed with her keen support, and Harry took a moment to fly past and grin at her wildly. Neville was alongside her, and pretty soon they were leading chants that overpowered the smaller crowd of Ravenclaw supporters.

Twenty minutes in, there was the sharp screech of Madam Hooch's whistle. The crowd turned, most of whom had been watching Harry perform an extraordinarily speedy Wronski Feint that more than outmatched Tsuji who had almost fallen off her broom. McLaggen's commentary was, frustratingly, invaluable.

"Referee Hooch calling both Captains over, interrupting the aftermath of a beautifully performed Wronski Feint by Harry Potter. Ravenclaw Chaser, Orla Quirke, is taken off the pitch after a fifty-foot fall resulting from a vicious cobbing from Gryffindor's Ginny Weasley. Quirke will not return to the game today. A foul, certainly, and a significant size difference between the two players. It's worth considering how serious the injury to Quirke will be, wishing her a swift recovery of course. But what will Referee Hooch rule?"

The crowd was howling, Ravenclaw with anger and Gryffindor in shock. That wasn't how Quidditch was played, this was a far more friendly contest than the last match. Harry was running an anxious hand through his hair, while Miyuki looked incensed at the damage done to her best Chaser. Hermione didn't have to see the red-faced, unapologetic Ginny hovering near the Ravenclaw goal to know precisely who had overhead her conversation with Mr. Weasley. Finally, Harry gestured toward her, and every eye was on the girl as she flew over to him.

"It looks as though Weasley is arguing back with Referee Hooch. There was no apparent contact between herself and Quirke prior to the foul. Presumably a penalty will be given, once the Chaser has stopped fighting. She appears to have rounded on Captain Harry Potter now."

McLaggen was right. Ginny was now furiously screaming at Harry, unheard only because of the baying stadium. Hermione could just about make out Harry's expression, and he looked utterly shocked. She should have warned him. Shit. She squeezed her eyes shut, moving her fingertips toward her stomach. _Her fault. Disgusting. _Averting her gaze from the worsening argument between Ginny and Harry, she felt watched, and noticed Draco across from her. He was here. Watching Quidditch. Just like she'd promised him. He smiled, a smile that reached his eyes, and her heart. She moved her hands away from her tummy.

"Weasley just shoved her Captain, what a deterioration in the discipline of the Gryffindor team! Nobody clear what to do now. We know they used to date, but Weasley has recently been seen on Michael Corner, perhaps…"

"Cormac!"

The stern disapproving rebuke of Professor McGonagall stung him enough to change the subject, but the plateau was no more. Ginny had landed and was rapidly storming off toward the changing rooms. Down to six players, the teams were matched, and Harry refused to contest her exit. Madam Hooch, keen to get on with things, blew the whistle to give Ravenclaw a much-deserved penalty.

"Ravenclaw get it past Weasley! 110-40 to Gryffindor."

Almost as if desperate to call an end to the drama, Harry caught the snitch just minutes after the penalty. A second victory for the season, but it wasn't lost on the team that the only cheers came from those in their own colours. A hollower victory, that was for sure. Hermione and Neville made their way down the stands, keen to congratulate the team and hopefully moderate any ongoing argument between the two Gryffindors. Hermione's stomach in her throat again, she trailed behind Neville. Perhaps Ginny would already have left. Unlikely.

The atmosphere was difficult to gauge. Neville shouted out his congratulations, proud of them despite the incident, throwing on arm around a grinning Peakes. It wasn't the whole team who had behaved poorly, after all. Hermione found herself swiftly enveloped by Harry's arms, still sweaty in his uniform. She didn't care, she was just so relieved he was safe on the ground, and had won. Unfortunately, that was the moment Ginny emerged from the Girls Showers scowling, back in her clothes with wet hair, and she instantly laid into Hermione.

"What are you even doing here Hermione? You don't care about Quidditch, you never have. It's embarrassing, the way you throw yourself at him."

The whole changing room was silent in their collective astonishment. Harry had let go of the hug, though he gripped her hand firmly, and was standing slightly ahead of her, and began to try and interrupt. Ginny refused to be intruded upon.

"I'd imagine he doesn't know where you were this morning, calling my dad a traitor and protecting a Death Eater. Harry doesn't know that you tried to say what you did to your parents was somehow the same as losing my brother, does he? Playing the victim, again, pulling the strings like always. Taking Harry away for a year, messing with his head, starting a fight where people in my family…"

"Shut up Ginny. Shut up!" Harry roared, never letting go of Hermione's hand, "I know where Hermione was this morning, and I trust her judgement. The only reason I was even alive to make sure Fred's sacrifice wasn't in vain was her saving me time and time again. The only reason I managed to trick Voldemort was Malfoy's mother. Hermione's pain isn't less than yours. She had to make impossible decisions, decisions I wouldn't have been strong enough to make. She did that for all of us."

"The decision she made. That's the point, she chose to send her parents away, she decided to steal their memories, she orphaned herself. You never did understand what a family is, did you Hermione? That's why you would never leave mine alone. If your parents are dead, it's because of you and what you did. Probably why you spend time defending scum like Malfoy, having so much in common." Ginny, skin now white hot with anger, snarled. Neville gasped aloud, while Coote quietly moved his bat away from the youngest Weasley. Ron was in front of Hermione too now, desperately trying to diffuse his uncompromising sister. She ignored her brother. Ginny continued, "You have to pick, Harry, because I won't have her in our lives."

"I don't even have to think about it," Harry said firmly, not bothering to query what 'our' was supposed to imply. He wrapped his arm around Hermione's slight waist, and hugged her to him closely. Ginny's eyes lit up, like Fiendfyre, and she stalked out.

The drama in the changing rooms would spread, of course. That was the nature of Hogwarts. The post-match party, however, was sacred. Gryffindor Tower was pulsing with music, laughter and dancing. Hermione told herself that she was in the Common Room celebrating for as long as she was because she was a Gryffindor, and proud of Harry's brilliant play. As if that hadn't been true every other match. She knew that there was another, more selfish, reason behind her willingness to partake in the festivities. When Ginny had arrived, she had taken one look at her, dancing and laughing with her housemates, and stormed up to her dormitory. It was the only push Hermione needed to finally succumb to Harry's insistent hand that pulled her toward the crushing, impromptu dancefloor.

It had been a long weekend. Too long, and she was grateful for the sips of Ogden's Old she stole from the bottle making the rounds. It was a fixture of parties, but she'd always had the good grace to excuse herself so they could relax and enjoy it. It was just enough liquid courage to forget the words Ginny had thrown at her, and she swayed along with Harry, quickly joined by Neville, Seamus and Ron. For the first time, she felt as though she belonged there: sandwiched between them, laughing as Ron twirled her round awkwardly. By the time she freed herself from their grasp, and ensured Neville would keep an eye on him as she spotted more bottles emerging from the dormitories. She had a library to visit, picking up her bag on the way. After all, he wasn't going home, he had watched the Quidditch. She had to check whether he'd stolen her seat. It was the rules, or something like that anyway.

Draco had just about accepted that Hermione was not going to be in the library that evening, when she took the seat opposite him. She was flushed, eyes bright and warm, framed by a wild cascade of caramel ringlets. He lent forward, conspiratorially, enjoying the slight widening of her eyes as he did so.

"Is our illustrious Head Girl drunk?"

Her pupils dilated just a little bit more, as she pointedly ignored him and retrieved some parchment from her bag. He could smell her: jasmine and spearmint, with a whisper of honeyed malt. He lounged back on her chair, remorseless, savouring how true she had proven herself. She hadn't argued about her seat being taken when she arrived, merely raised an eyebrow at him, and taken her new seat opposite him. He had the first of his detentions to serve tomorrow, and the ink was drying on his the partially written apology in front of him, but he was here. At Hogwarts, not at the Manor. In the library. With her. Draco reflected that he wasn't all too offended when Gryffindor won.

She was drawing. Or at least she was attempting to do so. The quill seemed, for perhaps the first time, uncomfortable in her gentle grasp. There were rectangles, and lines, and small notes. She had her bottom lip between her teeth again, trying to focus through what he suspected was rather blurred vision. She hadn't noticed he was staring yet, as he navigated the parchment using her neat handwriting. Dining Room? A floorplan, then. Must be Potter's Cottage. She was making a Hippogriff's ear out of it. For a start, she'd forgotten to put the stairs in.

"Not an artist, then?"

She looked up at him, eyes burning with embarrassment. She was doing her best, he knew. She'd put everything on the line for that house, recalling the way she'd writhed in agony not so long ago. Bloody Potter. Why couldn't he fix his own house?

"Well, if you're so bloody good at drawing, why don't you help me? You're clearly not keen to finish off that apology for Arthur Weasley," she retorted, more out of embarrassment than genuine annoyance.

He smirked at her, shamelessly enjoying how riled up she was over her lacking artistic ability. A rare moment for her, he supposed. He slid the plans toward him. Reading between the lines, she had arranged for the house to be fixed up. He'd heard it was damaged irreparably all those years ago, but she was clearly thinking about furniture. The building was small, at least by what he'd become accustomed to, but he imagined it was just the sort of place she'd like. 'Cosy'. Fighting a sneer, he took a look at the annotations she had made. As he read, she developed a smirk that could rival one of his own.

"Not going to help draw?"

Draco looked at her. He remembered the way she'd held him last night. No one had touched him like that before. It wasn't the done thing in his family, his father would have crucified his mother had he learnt of any such affection, and his trysts with Pureblood girls over the past years were cold, emotionless rendezvous. Not soft. Not like she was. She had held his hand too, both of them in the end, and he'd felt empty ever since she'd let go. She was going to be the death of him.

"I'd need to see the cottage to make the drawings accurate."

She looked at him, mouth slightly open, cheeks wearing a soft blush. She took a tendril of her hair in one finger, and twisted it nervously. Why had he said that? Overkill. He would blame it on being distracted by the way her damn fingers had felt against her chest. He would blame it on her entirely, she was emitting some form of second hand drunkenness. She was doing something to him, a different type of magic. Maybe she was a master of the Imperius curse. Darker than the Dark Arts. She had to be.

"I'll be going back next there Sunday. You can come with me, if you'd like?"

Nodding, he had already forgotten all thoughts of blame, and of unforgivable curses. Instead, he pushed the half-written letter into his bag, and stood up. She looked up at him questioningly, confused as to why he wasn't still in his seat.

"Potter clearly won't be in any fit to return you home safely." She still looked confused, so he continued, lifting her bag to the desk, "I'm walking you to your rooms."


	16. Forgotten

Forgotten

Hermione was exhausted. Deliberately so. She had restructured her schedule, amped up her studying, and had volunteered for more patrols with the Prefects. She'd told Neville it was to make sure they felt supported, but they both knew that it wasn't a concern. He wasn't quite sure why, but there had been no return to the glorious night they had spent reminiscing over Harry's shocking eleventh birthday. She had been so wonderfully alive that evening, for the first time since the war had ended really. Neville had been so relieved when she had danced with them after the incident with Ginny. She'd danced like he'd never imagined she would, enough to make him smile even now at the happy memory. Hermione had been back. Yet almost as soon as she'd returned, she was gone again.

He could see that Harry was making more effort to encourage eating: lemon cookies in the Common Room, and talking to Winky to make sure there was pasta every evening at dinner. If anything, though, she had lost weight. The top of her ribs, below her emaciated clavicle, were increasingly visible. She was feeling the cold too, shivering through her double-layered jumpers in a way he'd never seen before. She'd taken to casting a soft warming charm on her robes, apparently an easier solution than eating more. Neville's frustration was only second to his worry. Hermione was more than capable of thinking her way out of the consequences of her behaviour, at least until her health deteriorated irreparably.

He had heard her crying too. Every evening, after Harry presumably fell asleep, he heard soft footsteps in the Common Room, and the indulgent creak of the armchair. Neville would lie awake in his bed, willing himself to give her space, staring at the hangings above him. Her sobs were muted. She was aspiring to silence. It made him sad, and angry too. Hermione Granger crying was not something to be ignored, or hidden. Hermione Granger crying should make the world stop. Not the way he stopped, not someone like him. People who mattered needed to stop, and run to her, and fix whatever was making her feel so sad. Fix her. Hermione Granger deserved that, at the very least. Eventually, the sobs would stop, and after a while he would hear a second set of footsteps venture into the main area, a groan of the same armchair as she was carried back to the bed she shared. Harry. If he couldn't fix this, who could? Hermione Granger shouldn't stay broken, she couldn't.

Hermione knew what she was doing of course, keeping herself so busy. In the days since the Quidditch match, she had expected more to happen. The primary outcome was a rather romanticised rumour amongst the younger students about two war heroes getting married. A couple of vicious whispers of betrayal. That was it. No one called her a murderer, no one told her that her loss was less important than theirs, and Ron had made a point of keeping his sister at bay, keen to avoid another argument. Yet she couldn't stop those words from reverberating around her head. So she had endeavoured to exclude it from her daytimes at the very least. She had completed every assignment due until Christmas, and would have continued working ahead had it not been for Professor Rakepick embarking on a heart-to-heart with her when she asked for the Spring syllabus. Instead, she turned her attention to Prefect duties, and Harry. Harry, who had stepped up for her, in a way she'd never dared expect.

After classes every afternoon, they would return to the bathtub. Harry would soak beneath a layer of thick suds, holding her hand to his heart, and she would get to work. Illuminated by the dim glow of a candle, she was constructing barriers that he could use to control his most difficult memories, of which there were many. Perhaps more importantly, she was exercising the space left behind when he'd lost the horcrux. The barricades she created held well, except one. Kinglsey's letter. He still had not responded, and didn't seem to want to discuss it aloud. She understood that all too well, recalling the long evening spent with Professor Snape. Legilimency could be a mercy. That space, that capacity created within his mind was addicting. His thoughts were fast, electrifyingly so. Yet they always returned to where they began: her, sparkling eyes and chestnut curls staring back at her from his filtered mind. They would sit until the water cooled, and he'd hold her. Neither cared that she was getting wet. Facing the mirror, his strong hands around her waist, she saw herself the way he did for just a few moments. Enough to make her feel like a woman. Enough to make her feel worth something.

Just before the candle flickered out, he'd kiss her forehead, or her temple, or sometimes the back of her neck if she wore her hair up. Innocent kisses. Kisses all the same. Kisses don't become less poignant with frequency; she had learnt that. Harry had developed a daily habit of Quidditch, regardless of who was available to play with him. He found freedom on his broom, and he would take her to the library on the way. Leaving his side, she would join Draco, invariably in her seat. Waiting. _No. Not necessarily waiting, Hermione. Don't overthink it._ She would sit opposite, and work. Varying the tasks, keeping her mind occupied. Swapping papers, reading and occasionally debating opposing views. It was stimulating. He was stimulating. Saturday night's library visit was sufficient to finish and refine her notes from the papers she had stolen from the Ministry of Magic.

"So are you going to tell me what this has all been about? I recognise Ministry papers when I see them, you know."

She had given a triumphant sigh and placed her quill down. She was ready. He had evidently noticed her satisfaction. He'd been kind enough not to question the ream of documents she'd been going through over the last few weeks. Even now, his voice was a low whisper, as if he recognised a secret to be kept. Of course he knew the papers, she'd been careless to believe he wouldn't. After all, his father had worked there for decades, and he seemed the type to bring his work home. Last year had proven that.

"I didn't steal them," though the way she bit her bottom lip made her look more culpable than she knew, "I duplicated them. At the trial. Things haven't been changing, not really. Not enough. This is enough evidence of that, evidence I can use to make changes happen, I hope. I'm going to make sure that it meant something when we won. We lost too much for things to stay the same."

She had almost hesitated when she said 'we' won, but as she spoke the words, she knew them to be true. Not because of his hesitation to identify Harry, not because of his standing with them momentarily against Voldemort, not because of his mother's lie. It was 'we' because she'd seen the Manor. Because she'd seen that… that hug. Because she'd held him under the stars. Because he wouldn't be here now, not like this, otherwise. Anything that wasn't this felt like a loss. His appreciative eyes when she said it suggested that he felt similarly. Distracted. Neither noticed the tall Slytherin behind the shelves that hugged the alcove, dark eyes peering through a minute gap between dusty magical history tomes. Neither noticed the intentness with which he listened. Neither noticed the light footsteps of his exit as their conversation wrapped up. After all, she was tired. That meant it was time to go. Zabini had witnessed their pathetic routine often enough to know that.

If Harry didn't collect her by the time she was disguising little yawns, Draco would inform her that he would be taking her back to her rooms, with a humoured air of disdain for those who were 'failing to do their duty.' He didn't reach out to hold her hand, but he had taken to carrying her satchel on his shoulder. It seemed easy, ordinary, right. Saturday was one of those nights. As they walked through the castle, slowly, neither in a rush to say goodnight, she reflected on the way she felt safe with him. Not the same way Harry made her feel safe: Harry conjured a world where there were no threats, as if the entire Earth was just them. Draco was different. There was a hint of edge there, a mutual respect and recognition for the dangers that were always lurking. A feeling of comfort too, a belief that he protected her, and would continue to do so. Sometimes with Harry, she felt dulled. Like she was surrounded by cotton wool. It could be extremely pleasant; it was certainly the opposite of Draco. She felt alive, synapses pulsing like they hadn't since his father's trial. She felt herself. As they walked, they rarely spoke. The curiosity other students held for their choice of companion was sufficient without being overheard. They spent the time being together. That was enough, that was more than she had ever imagined. He always waited until the portrait swung closed behind her before walking away. Keeping her safe.

There, she would go to bed with Harry. Talking sometimes, in the window seat. He would hold her until he slept. She waited until she was sure everyone was asleep to fall apart. Her time in Harry's mind was soothing and important, but it exhausted him. The last thing he needed was the knowledge of her… her feelings. Neville, too. The last thing she wanted was to burden him. He had so much to contend with already. Curled up in the chair, she cried until her chest felt as though it would explode, until she almost choked on her own grief. Some days, she wailed so much she cast a silencing charm on herself. She didn't want to disturb them. She was breaking, but she would do so in private.

Hermione's nails dug into her forearm, ripping into the hideous scar. Just like Ginny's words had. Mudblood. That's what she was. Her parents weren't magical, but they were still her parents. Mum. Her beautiful mum, kind and supportive, even when she didn't quite understand. That had always been a feature, even before magic. Magic bridged the gap, somehow, made things easier. As through the abstract made everything clearer, simpler to accept. Or maybe that was the time away at Hogwarts. She might've understood what Hermione had done. Dad. Her father would almost certainly not accept her decision. Argumentative, with a temper to rival Ron's. He cared, she knew, deep down. Not enough to make the tentative hugs on Platform Nine and Three Quarters anything other than uncomfortable. Not enough to avoid the knife-edge atmosphere of family dinners. Magic had simply been another difference between them. It had made her easier to dismiss, and later, when she refused to leave the magical world when Voldemort returned? It had made her easier to resent. Their only child. Risking their only child, for something he couldn't conceive of.

Her nails weren't a punishment for that though. No, she had made the right decision to fight. Their victory, even before Harry's words, was testament to that. She'd won freedom. Her tears were those of dishonour. She was something much more shameful than a Mudblood. She was a coward. Too frightened to see if her plan had succeeded, the stakes too high for her to want the results. While she didn't know, they were both alive and dead, and that was comforting. More comforting than the certainty of death, surely, even if half of her was a murderer. Blood and tears mingling now, she fell asleep.

Each morning, though, she would wake again in Harry's arms. He held her like she was precious, like she mattered, like she was his. Every second reminded her of the way he defended her against Ginny, allowing her to close the door on the melancholy of the night before. He hadn't sought to keep the peace, even with a girl he'd once hoped to love one day, even with a member of his adoptive family. He had stepped up, defensive and proud, and hadn't hesitated for even a moment when the girl had posed her ultimatum. Hermione hadn't lost her best friend. He had kept his word, because here he was, one hand caressing her hair while the other held her to him. It made up for the exhaustion, it got her through the day. He'd pull her tight to his chest and kiss her forehead gently, and grin as she snuggled closer. He refused to let her go until they were almost late to breakfast, every day. It was the only part of the day she felt the world was entirely safe, where she was entirely safe from herself.

On Sunday morning, she had to make her excuses. She was meeting Draco while the school was distracted by lunch. They weren't technically supposed to venture from the castle grounds. She was more concerned, however, with keeping her project a secret. So when Harry held her in his arms and their legs intertwined, she savoured the moment, knowing she would have to get up earlier than he'd like. They lay there, all words and companionable silences, for a couple of hours. When they did get up, he put the news on the wireless, and continued their conversation while she showered. Mutual dislike of the Ministry was an energising topic, and his stomach grumbling pushed them toward the Great Hall. She had to go. He was expecting an excuse, she knew. She felt awful, taking advantage of his concern. It wasn't fair, he worried about her.

"Can we get dinner together instead? I'd like to try the pasta? It's my favourite."

Harry grinned, and hugged her. Hermione didn't break her word; she would eat tonight. Distracted by his relief, he didn't notice the direction in which she sipped away.

Draco met her by the Whomping Willow, where he had waited while glaring at the tree cynically. The tree had lost its leaves by now, an exposed soul on the landscape. Hermione privately felt it was more fitting that way, an ode to what lay beneath. Souls lost: Sirius, really, and Professor Snape too. She was quiet as she conjured pressure on the tree knot, the willow captured within itself. Stillness. She made her way into the tunnel, mildly surprised as Draco followed her without question. She paused again, by the spot where Professor Snape had passed. Draco's godfather, she considered. She moved on swiftly and offered her arm. Side-along apparition. His hand was large and gentle on her forearm, and when she felt it, they were gone.

With a quiet pop, she saw the churchyard once more. Their boots crunched: the first snowfall of the season had arrived. It was the only place she could guarantee there would be no Muggles, beneath the fir trees. They walked through the village in an amiable silence, pausing in the square momentarily to take in the transformation of the grey obelisk to the statue of what was lost in the Hollow all those years ago. Those with whom everything started, and everything ended. She continued toward the cottage, carefully unhooking the gate and stepping into the small front garden. She kept the gate open with her hand, waiting for him to step through.

"Granger. The wards."

She turned, and saw him standing on the other side of the cross-top iron gate, and realised she hadn't brought him through with her. Biting her lip, she wasn't quite ready to trust the strength of her Fidelius Charm. She held her hand out for him, ignoring the raised eyebrow she received in return, holding the gate open. He stepped forward, and they could finally examine the cottage. The leadlights had been muggle-fired with only a smidgen of colour: a small hallows symbol in a soft ruby lay within the centre of the highest pane of each. The glint of red brought their eyes over the exposed coromandel framework up to the pitched gable roof. It was no longer open to the elements; it was ready for her to begin reworking the interior.

She felt content, albeit a bit nervous. She hoped Harry would understand her absences, and believe they were worth it when he saw. The property was as beautiful as ever, but the snow-capped cottages took Hermione back a little too vividly to the year before. She shivered, and it wasn't from the cold. Then, the cottage had been left in its ruined state. A monument to the Potters and as a reminder of the violence that tore apart their family. Would Harry feel that their memory had been diminished? Would he even want to return to the village, after what had happened with Nagini there? He had blamed himself. Harry always did.

A firm, comfortable hand met her ribs. His grey eyes met hers, and she felt oddly reassured by the confidence she found there. A man who had spent the best part of a decade wishing Harry dead could hardly be expected to know whether he'd want what she was trying to build, but she trusted it nonetheless. He broke contact, having eyed a patch of remaining Moonseed suspiciously. Glancing back at her, almost wanting to confirm she hadn't touched it, she caught his eye and he followed her through the newly garnet painted regency door.

Once inside, he took measurements of all of the rooms, taking notes to reflect the shape of them. They ventured up, after he cast a strengthening charm on the stairs, just to be sure. The exterior of the cottage was misleading, there was ample space inside for such a property. Clearly the Potters had anticipated several children. It was obvious Hermione had taken care to preserve the original features of the cottage, and restore them where they had been lost. Tall, narrow panelled doors in newly stained doorways. Scrubbed and oiled floorboards that couldn't possibly be original, given what had happened there, but were certainly in keeping with the style. The windows too, that she had replaced, he didn't recognise the rune and reached up to trace it. Curious. She would have to explain that to him later.

Once he had everything he needed, they returned downstairs. As she opened the front door, he realised what she wanted to do. The garden. No. Surely Longbottom could help with that? As she made to step off the path, he marched ahead of her, effectively blocking her from the grass. She looked mildly affronted, and more than a little confused. He examined the space around him carefully, and sure enough there were still ample patches of Moonseed gathered, and even in the grey gloom of the sky, there was a trace of the glinting crescent seeds ready to sprout more danger.

"Moonseed. You need to stay on the path."

His voice was firm, and if she was perfectly honest, she had no desire to disagree. She had not forgotten the crushing pain of losing her spinal fluid, and was in no rush to repeat the experience. She opened her beaded bag, and began removing plants. If he was going to clear the Moonseed, she could prepare their replacements. First, she cleaned up the ivy around the front door, ensuring the entrance was uninhibited and clearing any of the more twisted areas. Standing back to admire her work, she was momentarily distracted by him. Draco was entirely focused on the grass, scrutinising it for evidence of Moonseed. She hadn't ever seen him pay such close attention before, even in Potions. He seemed a man obsessed, whipping his wand elegantly and destroying any patches he found. He scoured every centimetre of grass, refusing to be distracted from the task.

She only ventured toward the grass when he had declared it safe. She had worn her dragon-hide boots just in case, but a second opinion was never unwanted. Especially one as diligent as his. Beginning with the medicinal plants, she tirelessly planted purple flowering aconite, boughs of thistle-like wormwood, young ochre saplings of fireseed bush, and smooth tendrils of aloe vera. A garden fit for a Potions lover, something Harry wasn't, but useful all the same. Draco, meanwhile, was levitating a rapidly growing wiggentree she had shrunk to fit into the bag, to a spot overlooking a small pond. She probably should have warned him about that, but he had adapted well. It was beautiful, mature and likely to invite Bowtruckles in that would surely wreak havoc. She rather suspected Harry would have a lot of fun with them. Though, she drew the line at hiding a Grindylow in the pond.

Carrying the last of the matured lilies that Neville had helped her with to their spot by the back door, she huffed out her relief at the garden being finished. Almost. There would be small changes, of course, some garden furniture. But by the time the plants had been set in the soil and charmed, they were exhausted. Her hair was wild, even though she'd tied it up. His hair, rather predictably, didn't have a single thread out of place. How arrogant of him. Both in agreement that they had enough for today, and him being keen to work on the sketches, they left the cottage.

She knew she had to do it. Harry deserved peace, he deserved family, he deserved sanctuary. Security could not be breached, and she wasn't about to risk all of this. Not for a hunch. Not for him. Not yet. Harry had to come first. She drew her wand firmly, as he walked slightly ahead of her, and skilfully probed his mind for the moment she gave him access to Potter Cottage. She only needed to remove a single memory. She kept her footsteps soft, following his thoughts, unseen.

_A small hand reached through the emptiness in front of him. Merlin, she can't really expect me to hold her hand. They'd never purposefully held hands before, not really. He'd never looked, not properly. She won't want me to hold her hand. Not again. Like the time she took my hand and hid behind it. She had looked so fragile. Like the time I took her disillusioned hands in mine. She had felt so powerful then. Now though, she remained there, palm small and slim. Firm in its insistence that he take it. Her simply varnished nails were perfectly trimmed. Practical, and yet delicate to the point he knew if he were to take her hand, he'd have to be gentle. Cursing his racing heart for the film of sweat he knew would be appearing on his skin, he took her hand in his and stepped forward. Don't sweat. Please don't sweat. Not now. Don't hold on too long, Draco, don't make this weird. Don't be awkward. Don't let her think of you as strange. But shit, he didn't want to let go. Not ever. She was electric perfection._

"Obliviate."


	17. Wet

Wet

Hermione wasn't quite sure how they had come to be in the bath together. She was certain of only several things. First, promise or no promise, she would not have eaten the pasta had she known she would end up there. Second, it was admittedly more comfortable to work within his mind when she was in the bath too. Third, that it wasn't as strange as one might have thought, to be in the bath with him. Harry looked at her. The water was scorching, and smelt irrevocably of Hermione. There was no sound, except the echo of heavy rain on the window of their room. They had a jug of squash, and two iced glasses, the temperature of the water above what he was ordinarily comfortable with. She sat across from him, slightly reclined, dampened ringlets thin against her shoulders, only just visible above the waterline, skin flushed red from the heat. The temperature from the bath clearly wasn't only affecting him. She reached out for her glass, and put it to her lips. Head titled back; her neck seemed longer than he'd ever noticed before, exposed like that. She looked heavenly.

"Let me wash your hair, 'Mione?"

Her eyes were curious, nervous but compliant. She wrapped an arm gently over her chest, and turned around to face away from him, relaxing into the thick film of jasmine suds around them. She let her hand slide back into the water, as a gentle ripple signalled he had moved closer. Her scalp yielded to his beguiling fingers, kneading her in the most delicious way. Gently massaging a lather from every strand of hair, before returning to their roots and branding wistful circles into her. His fingertips teased the skin hidden behind the curve of her ears. He rinsed her hair, and then worked in her thick conditioner from the roots to the ends. He hadn't seen her hair so smooth and straight since the Yule Ball. He was looking forward to it drying. She looked so small like this. Young and vulnerable. She had her knees up, pulled against her chest, and he was reminded of the times he'd found her crying alone in the tent. Merlin, that had been a hard time. She'd been so unspeakably sad, but she'd remained constant by his side. She'd even held him in her arms as he slept some nights, as she sat with the locket withholding her own sleep. Now, looking at her, he couldn't imagine not being the one to hold her, comfort her. She was the very definition of a little spoon.

He relaxed his legs slightly, feeling her thighs soft and smooth between his knees. She was still, too still. They'd never been like this before, not really. He could imagine what she was worrying about. He wanted to hold her close, never let anything hurt her, destroy every self-depreciating thought that dared approach her. This was a big deal to her, he knew that. He'd known from the second this had started. The way she had waited until she heard the door click shut before there was any movement on undressing. The way she sat with her arms across her stomach after dinner. Of course, she was entitled to her modesty, but he suspected it was less about her most intimate areas and more about the bony curves he knew she detested. Her belief that her inverted tummy was fat, when all that was there was taut skin and protruding hip bones. Her concern that her ribs weren't quite visible enough, when they rose like sharp hills through her back. Her fear that her thighs were soft and thick, and her calves were masculine and muscular. He hadn't disrespected her privacy to learn this, no, this was knowledge he'd gained long before today. All of this was evident through her clothing, the way she pinched and dug at the areas she deemed imperfect. Every nip, every scratch, hurt him.

She was beautiful though. She was beautiful in a way that was strikingly absolute: a loveliness that wasn't the way she looked, an allure that didn't lie in her words. She was beautiful in what she was. Hermione. She was crushingly unaware of it, and if anything, that made her even more exquisite. Taking care of herself might have made her slightly more lovely, perhaps, he was not a man who fantasised about razor sharp bones. He wanted her to be herself, naturally, not a sanitised, thin version of Hermione. It was more that she would get so much more joy from life, and there was nothing he coveted more than her happiness, the way light was sewn into every one of her smiles. Anything that made those radiant smiles happen, more often and for longer, was crucial.

"Viktor said that Alberic Fawley has been talking about you."

Her voice was soft, and peaceful. Much gentler than the heated debates that had been erupting in his own mind since he'd received Kingsley's letter. He suspected that Hermione knew he hadn't returned any of Fawley's letters since he'd received the note from the Ministry, but had the compassion to avoid bringing that particular detail up. She had shifted her head slightly to the left, again exposing her slender neck to him. He kissed her there lightly, before asking what had been said.

"Apparently he's keen to work out what it would take to secure himself his new Seeker. Viktor suggested he speak to you directly, and…"

He prompted her to continue. For the first time, he wasn't filled with dread and panic at the topic of his future, as he rubbed his fingers against the top of her spine.

"He reassured him that you're the right choice for the job. Viktor thinks he'd be lucky to have you. He's looking forward to seeing you in Aswan next summer."

Aswan had been the somewhat dubiously elected host of the World Cup, and the Egyptian Governing Body had been very irritated after it was cancelled in light of the events of the year. Viktor had sent Hermione three tickets after the dates were confirmed. It was true that after the first match of the season, Alberic Fawley had sent him an offer to join Puddlemere United. He'd written back, expressing interest, and had been invited to Dorset for the February training camp. He hadn't replied yet, distracted by Kingsley's letter. Ginny had spread word far and wide, and the expectant belief that he would continue as a false hope for the wizarding world had only grown. He hadn't been the Chosen One for any other reason bar one man's understanding of a prophecy, but it was almost as if the interpretation had widened to encompass any emerging criminal element. A few years ago, he'd have been honoured and delighted, but now? There were days he thought about throwing his cloak over himself just as Ignotus Peverell had, and escaping it all.

As the water began to cool and he heard the girl in front of him stifling small yawns, Harry summoned a towel and wrapped it around himself as he stood. Hermione sat in the bath for a few more minutes after the door clicked shut behind Harry, before she drained the bath and brushed her teeth for longer than was necessary. Hair dry and pulled into a loose top knot, and her softest floral pyjamas on her skin, she tugged at the sleeve until it comfortably covered her scar. Looking at herself in the mirror, she touched her rib, hand whispering over the precise spot Draco had touched her earlier. His hand had been confident and comforting, precisely what she had needed in that moment. She hadn't been entirely convinced he would follow through with going to Godric's Hollow with her. Yet he had been there, waiting. Before the bath, she'd felt some guilt for the memory charm. Not for protecting Harry. She would never feel an ounce of remorse for that, but the other thoughts. She hoped she'd been delicate enough to preserve every moment leading up to him stepping across the threshold. She suspected she hadn't been, after all, a man who wanted to hold her hand forever would surely have taken it again? She blew out the candle, and climbed into bed, savouring the warming charm Harry placed on the duvet.

There was a lot of movement in the castle that night. Harry was sound asleep, lucid dreams filled with extraordinary flying manoeuvres and the wind rushing through his hair. Hermione, for the first time in a while, was not overwhelmed with tears in the Common Room. Instead, she sat at the table and neatly penned a letter to Kingsley. She was ready, though she doubted he was. Once she had written her request, and signed it, she tied the scroll and stole off to the Owlery beneath the cloak. Pausing for only a moment, she tied the parchment to a school owl, and watched it disappear off into the distance. No going back now. Letting out a breath, she pondered on the absence of regret she felt at what she had sent. For the first time since the Quidditch match, she didn't fall asleep in the armchair, and instead settled back into bed herself. Harry's arms instinctively cuddled around her, accommodating as she pushed them above her pasta-filled stomach. The rain on the window soothed her to sleep: Draco's thoughts as she had removed the location of Potter's Cottage, and Harry's diligent head massage, at the forefront of her dreams.

Elsewhere, Draco was on the move too. He had left the dungeons, disillusioned himself, and slowly made his way up the stairs toward McGonagall's Office. He didn't enjoy his invisibility nearly so much now there wasn't a tiny hand in his, but perhaps he would have the opportunity again. As he ventured past the Gargoyle, he realised he was about to come into contact with Dumbledore's portrait too. He hadn't seen him, not since that fateful night in the Astronomy Tower. Yet he didn't hesitate. He hadn't killed Albus Dumbledore, a dying man. He had failed, and for that he was glad, on reflection. Even if he had, he still would have walked in as he did. He had little choice; he was the only person who could do this. Pulling up a chair to the portraits on the wall, he ignored the curious eyes of the smattering of wizened men who remained awake.

"Professor Snape?"

The thin, sallow-skinned man in the portrait suddenly opened his eyes. He blinked several times, as if unable to understand what stood before him. Draco Malfoy, here. He hadn't seen his Godson since before the Battle of Hogwarts. The young man looked healthier now, shoulders broad and strong as if a weight had been lifted, and his eyes less sunken in tortured weariness. Time had been kind to the boy, he had grown to be a tall, athletic and rather graceful young man. Far from the sharp chinned youth he had met all those years ago. Malfoy genes, he supposed.

"I hoped to seek some advice, on a quite specific matter." After a pause, it became clear that the Professor was waiting, and so Draco continued. "I want to determine if there is a long-term antidote to Moonseed. A girl I know is very sensitive and has come into prolonged contact, and I have reason to believe it will happen again." A single raised eyebrow from the Professor made it obvious that more details would be required, and knowing the man as he did, he knew precisely which detail would need to come first, "Granger. Granger is allergic to Moonseed. And she's not the same, she's more fragile at the moment. It could kill her."

Snape remained outwardly impassive. Miss Granger was the cause of the boy's midnight errand, then. Never would he have thought this possible: he had seen, no he had blatantly encouraged, his Godson's merciless teasing of the girl. Yet here he was, seeking out a vaccine to prevent her further suffering. How things change. Perhaps that was why she hadn't returned to Spinner's End of late. Or perhaps he overestimated her desire to speak with him. He recalled that night several weeks ago, the hint of a memory he'd witnessed in her mind: the two standing tightly together, her stomach feeling the pressure of the boy's… yes, quite enough of that.

"I trust Miss Granger is safe now?"

Draco paused. Strange, his Godfather didn't seem surprised that it was her. Had his father been there, he'd have been writhing in pain by now, showing concern for a Mud… for her, for Granger in particular. Instead, the Professor seemed almost concerned about her. He supposed she had been a complete swot in Potions for many years, and had helped kill the Dark Lord who had so haunted the man for most of his life. Then his mind shifted back to the way she had been so far from safe a few weeks ago, pushing her head into his chest, how light she'd been in his arms.

"Yes, yes. Of course, she's safe now. But we didn't know, she didn't know she was allergic to it. She was in agony, more than Aunt Bella put her through. No light, no sound. I thought she might be dying, or hallucinating, she was behaving so strangely."

"In what way was her behavior so strange? And why would Miss Granger have cause to encounter Moonseed again? It's extraordinarily rare in Britain, unless she has determined to join MACUSA in an ill-fated attempt to free them from their own stupidity, of course," the portrait snarked.

Draco wasn't quite sure what to say. How could he explain the way she'd smashed her head against the stone walls so determinedly, the way she'd pointed her wand at her own mind ready to destroy it? How could he explain the way she'd buried her face in his chest without letting on the utter agony he had felt at seeing Granger giving up on herself? The way she'd clung to his hand and pulled it firm over her eyes was something he would carry until his dying day.

"The symptoms were painful enough that she attempted to end the suffering. She has taken on a renovation project, Potter's Cottage, and Godric's Hollow is apparently awash with Moonseed. I have destroyed what I could locate in the garden, but she is unwilling to step away from the task. Potter doesn't know of her plans."

Professor Snape remained silent for several minutes. He had been to that house, on the night it all happened. He had held Lily, unbreathing and cooling to the touch, in his arms and cried tears like he'd never known. His soul burned, his arms full of the woman who he had loved so much he believed he would die with the pain of it, a woman whose voice he would never hear again, whose hands he would never hold, whose love he would never feel. He had returned, of course, to the grave in the Hollow. Year after year. Not on the day of her death, too great a chance of visitors. Rather, he visited on the twelfth of April. The day he had first seen her in the park. The day his heart was stolen by Evans. The only year he had failed to visit was the last, for he hadn't wanted to leave the castle to the Carrows, and now he would never go again. Another sacrifice.

And what of Draco? Miss Granger had allowed him to accompany her to Potter's Cottage. He had no doubt she had the ability to prevent him following her, and certainly to repel him from the house had she wanted to. Perhaps more surprising was that the boy had sought to go, and had destroyed what had hurt her. If Severus Snape was a more emotional man, he would have thought it touching. Clearly she had listened to him, and as a result they had grown closer. Close enough that he was building walls against his own Godfather when talking about her condition, close enough that he was diligently avoiding eye contact.

"Miss Granger is an intolerable know-it-all, is she somehow rendered incapable of developing a potion herself? I would have thought her mind would be ensnared by the task. Mr. Potter will not allow her to return to a property where her life is in danger."

A pause. Draco had very little choice than to reveal more than he had intended to the man, if he wanted his help. It would cost him his dignity, but he trusted it would remain an unspoken loss.

"Granger believes there are more pressing issues than her own wellbeing. I cannot tell Potter, I promised her I wouldn't."

There was nothing more to be said. Privately, Professor Snape's thoughts were similar to those of the coolly embarrassed man who sat before him: Potter's inability to maintain his own garden should not be endangering the brightest witch of their time. However, it would be fruitless convincing the girl otherwise, and it was clear that Draco would not betray her even over such a matter. Allegiances had somehow been drawn, and that was his burden to carry. So, for the hours that came after, Severus Snape worked to understand Hermione's symptoms. All of them. The dura tear. The hyperacusis. The hand holding. It was only then that the lecture began. The difficulty in creating a blood memory potion for someone of Muggle heritage, one that would appropriately be triggered by Moonseed presence would have to come from someone whose line had been exposed to the allergen for generations.

Just when Draco felt that the task was impossible, the Professor claimed there was such a donor, and swiftly moved on without any further explanation to the addition of Moonseed essence itself, crushed Lionfish Spines, sliced Murtlap Tentacle and the use of a silver cauldron for purity. After having been reminded several times of his tendency to simmer potions at too high a temperature, an unnecessary reminder of the toxicity of the potion should it not be prepared correctly, as well as three differently worded prompts to have the substance tested by a Potions Master with a preferably greater attention span than Horace Slughorn, Draco was ready to call it a night. Just one last question.

"Whose blood has the correct memory?"

The Professor gave no response, and instead promptly left his portrait for the small, silent living room at Spinner's End, where he fell asleep gazing fondly at the armchair he longed to return to.


	18. Waves

Waves

Neville accompanied Hermione to the Headmistress' Office on Wednesday after classes had finished. She knew he was talking, chatting, calming himself. She didn't mind, but it wasn't necessary. Not for her. She was in a state of cold stillness, her mind clear and focused, navigating the complex flow chart of the next hour carefully. No longer fine tuning. No need. Around her, everything seemed to be moving in slow motion, allowing her to notice even the smallest details. The cadenced pulse of her heart, mirrored in her stomach. The slight steer to the right of Neville's gait. The musk of bergamot she knew to be Kingsley Shacklebolt's presence in the castle. The subtle crunch of the gargoyle as it shifted, betraying the swiftness of its repair.

The air inside the office was thick: tension, from Kingsley, and slight confusion from McGonagall. Every third Wednesday, they'd been meeting with the Headmistress to update her on emerging concerns, and hear what was coming up from her administrative perspective. After the incident with the Slytherins on the first weekend, they'd been determined to avoid the back foot in future. Hermione moved to take a seat, closest to Kingsley and in full view of the portraits. The Minister had never been present previously, of course; his attendance was at the request of Hermione. He had not disappointed. He was every inch the powerful wizard she had come to respect over the past few years, towering over her in his seat. His usual imperturbable demeanor, however, was betrayed somewhat by the furtive glances he kept shooting Hermione as Neville opened the meeting. She refused to give him any signal, comforting or not, and instead concentrated her gaze at Professor Snape's portrait, just above Neville's shoulder.

"…incident with Ginny Weasley at Quidditch hasn't been resolved. She was just as angry after the match, and spoke to Hermione quite rudely. She's very angry about the loss of Fred, and is certainly viewing it in a comparative lens. I think if we don't intervene now, in some way, we can expect more problems there. I understand Harry is thinking to remove her from the team until things settle."

As McGonagall responded, enquiring as to the nature of the post-match comments, Hermione felt something brush against her right hand. It was large, and warm, and from the imposing citrus scent, she knew that Kingsley had moved closed to her and was attempting to get her attention. His hand brushed over hers again. Inappropriate. Especially if Professor Snape's expression was anything to go by. A millisecond of righteous irritation and disbelief written across his features that she was lucky enough to catch. Instead of responding, she leaned into the conversation slightly and picked up her teacup, freeing herself from his attention. He was anxious. That would aid her well.

From Professor Snape's perspective, the scene was one of the most intriguing he had witnessed since taking root in the office. He briefly pondered the relationship between Kingsley and Miss Granger, but doubted that they had spent sufficient time together for anything too intimate to occur. Probably for the best, his godson's black heart would no doubt be broken to lose her to the Minister of Magic of all people. Also, the man's face was tinged with an anxiety that was unexpected. Shacklebolt had always been a bastion of calm under intense fire, but not today. Today, there was a film of sweat on his forehead, he had been unwilling to expound upon on his presence to the Headmistress, and his repeated attempts to catch Miss Granger's eye suggested they had business to attend to. Well, well, the Minister had found himself at the beck and call of Miss Granger. How typically incorrigible of her. He had heard she had a mean streak, a tall tale from Miss Skeeter that until this moment he had all but dismissed. Yet clearly, the girl had something on the Minister. He committed to find out precisely what it was.

"Academically, we have an issue with History of Magic. Professor Binns is asleep most of the day, and isn't delivering his classes. I found the First Years in a state of disarray and had little choice but to take over last week."

As she spoke, Kingsley had shifted his position slightly, using her contribution to attempt eye contact under the guise of polite conversation. It did not escape Hermione's laser focus, and instead she held the attention of the Headmistress, who seemed genuinely alarmed at the failure of one of her most longstanding staff.

Asked what material she had delivered, Hermione allowed herself a small pause before continuing, "I didn't have a lesson plan to hand, and they asked what happened after the 1911 Wildcat Strike. I took them through a history of the socioeconomic conditions within the Wizarding World that led to the wars, up to the present day."

There was a moment of silence. Hermione held Professor McGonagall's gaze, determined not to allow Kingsley any room to catch her eye.

"Ah, yes, Miss Granger. Professor Weasley did mention something about that. He had some concerns about the appropriateness of such a lecture, and whether the topic was befitting of the class."

Even the Headmistress seemed embarrassed at the revelation. There was an awkward silence, an ironic disquiet. Hermione's prevailing thought was the withdrawal of her remaining regret over the confrontation with Mr. Weasley, although she determinedly refused to allow her expression to falter. The impasse was ended by something none in the office could have anticipated.

"A lecture on the modern history of our kind not befitting History of Magic? Daring to go beyond 1911 is too bold for Hogwarts? Maybe we should ask the students themselves what they thought of that class, because they likely learnt and retained more in that hour with Hermione than they will in the next four years of Professor Binns. I'm sorry, but that's true, and we all know it. Hogwarts once stood firm against the ignorance of the rest of our world, but look at what we've become! All of us are Gryffindors, and that meant something once. Back when daring, nerve and chivalry mattered, when we fought back, when I was tortured standing up to the Carrows. Didn't that matter? Didn't we fight for something? I am a Gryffindor. Fred Weasley was a Gryffindor. My… my parents were Gryffindors. All of them are gone now, really, and their sacrifice shouldn't be swept under the carpet. Not here, not at Hogwarts."

Neville's monologue was grippingly raw and honest. Every portrait on the wall was paying attention now, eyes focused on the young man, not to mention those within the meeting itself. Hermione reflected on what a remarkable choice he had been as Head Boy. She could barely recognise the person she'd shot a body-bind at as First Years, whose Remembrall had been stolen by an utterly charmless Draco Malfoy. She could only really see him as the man who had unquestioningly come to the Department of Ministries and faced the woman who had tortured his parents, who had led the rebellion under Professor Snape's tenure at Hogwarts, who had slaughtered Nagini with Gryffindor's sword. A true Gryffindor. He was right, and that was why she was here, why Kingsley was here, though he didn't know it yet.

"Neville's right. Our grief at what we've lost shouldn't prevent us from documenting what has happened, and learning from it. Where better to start that than Hogwarts? In the tent, last year, I spent hours educating Harry on the war that killed his parents. A war I learnt from books far from the classroom, books I purchased because they weren't in the library here. That needs to change."

"Hermione was absolutely, absolutely right to teach that in the class. There is a lot more going on in Professor Weasley's class that doesn't befit an educational environment. Perhaps that's where his concern should focus."

Neville's fists were clenched, and his breathing was slightly laboured with frustration. He was furious, and had clearly heard from someone that something had transpired in Muggle Studies. This had the capacity to derail Hermione's plans, and needed to be diffused quickly, or at least deflected so she could speak to Kingsley. Perhaps Professor McGonagall would be more taken by Neville's anger than his words, but she was sharp and would surely follow up later. It was time to take control.

"I think Neville would benefit from some time with you, Professor, to work out where that change needs to start. Perhaps the Minister and I could visit the grounds for half an hour, while the two of you catch up?"

Smiling kindly, the Headmistress agreed. Hermione duly ignored a sharply raised eyebrow from Professor Snape, and stood to leave. Her stomach bubbled, the signal of the time being upon them. Shadowed by a wary Kingsley, she made her way out of the office and embarked on some gentle small talk as she steered the increasingly suspicious Minister beyond the walls of the castle. It wouldn't do to be overheard, after all, this was rather sensitive. They had made it just beyond the Great Hall when he finally pushed her on what she wanted. She was impressed, she hadn't been sure he would wait until they were outside by his behaviour in the office.

"Miss Granger, Hermione. Your letter mentioned that you had some concerns, and I'm keen to hear them," he held his arm out for her to take, and chivalrously casted a warming charm over the tiny witch.

They walked toward the Black Lake, the crisp evening air settling in upon them. She was glad for the charm, she would have been shivering otherwise, and that likely would have undermined much of what she was about to do. Their path was well lit by the full moon. She couldn't help but be reminded of how she'd howled at Professor Lupin all those years ago. She hoped that what she was about to say would be significantly more effective.

"The Malfoy trial was an interesting day. I'd anticipated the Ministry to be far more welcoming than it had been the last time I visited."

Kingsley's brain was ticking. She could practically feel it whirr. His arm remained strong, holding hers ably despite their size difference. She felt surprisingly safe, given their destination. She suspected, correctly, that Kingsley was trying to work out which employee had made her feel unwelcome.

"Whose office was I in, waiting to be called?"

Yes, the seeds were certainly planted. So she had been in Amos Diggory's office. She vaguely remembered Cedric's father from the Triwizard Tournament, a tall man with a ruddy face and glasses that he preferred to rest on the tip of his nose. She hadn't known he had returned to the Ministry, and it was the last person she had suspected. Disappointment: surely someone who had lost so much shouldn't be hesitating to remove the laws of those who had killed him? In some cases, he'd brought forward expansions. Just doors from Kingsley's office.

"It's hard to be at Hogwarts, sometimes. Remus was defending the castle with you when he died, wasn't he? Teddy misses him a lot," she said, glancing up at his face. Genuine sadness there, and a touch of bewilderment at the path the conversation was taking. Good.

"It was Antonin Dolohov. He cursed you at the Department of Mysteries, I believe? Remus was in the courtyard we just walked through. He was impossibly brave, a loss I won't get over."

She reminded herself to thank Professor Flitwick for the death of Dolohov. That man had caused so much pain. They were by the shore of the lake now. The moonlight stoutly illuminating the path, and Kingsley was looking to the sky, no doubt thinking of the man they were speaking of.

"Remus trusted you a lot. Enough to fight by your side, just the two of you. Was he right to trust you, Kingsley?"

The man turned to face her now. She pushed away the excruciating awareness of how much larger, how much older he was. Pushed away the fact that this was the Minister of Magic. Instead, she looked him in the eyes and waited for an answer. His grip on her arm was loose now, having twisted to look at her. From a distance, she knew how intimate this would seem, and she hoped that no one was at the windows of the castle. She didn't waiver, she didn't qualify, she didn't back down.

"Yes, he was. I couldn't save him. It could just as easily have been me who died. I understand I don't have a family, and sympathise if you'd rather it was me. Really, I do," he implored, his eyes dark and honest, "but what does this have to do with Amos? Did he say something to you?"

"How would Remus feel if he knew about your plans to expand the Werewolf Registration Act?"

Silence. He looked around the shore, trying to determine the extent to which they were alone.

"What about Andromeda? Have you stayed in touch with Teddy's grandmother? How would she feel if she knew about the addition of wand signatures to the taboo? The taboo that killed Ted?"

Eyes widened now; Kingsley looked around again, just missing the shadowed silhouette of a man lurking in the boat house. Kingsley had let go of Hermione's arm, and seemed smaller now as she grew in confidence, relaxing into her flow. She slid the arm of her robe toward her shoulder, and pushed up her blouse to reveal the scar on her forearm.

"Look at it. I'm a Mudblood. Should I report to the Muggleborn Registration Commission to hand back my magic? Because you've expanded funding to the Department of Mysteries' research into my so-called stolen magic." she delivered her words calmly, until he averted his eyes, "Look at it. Look at my blood status, carved into my arm, because of the taboo you haven't gotten rid of."

Hermione wasn't sure if the shock of the confrontation had caused the warming charm to end, or whether the dynamic had simply grown so cold it had overcome it, but the air was biting now. He looked at her arm, where the scar was, and moved to brush his fingers over it. No one had done that before, and it took every ounce of strength not to recoil. How could this man want to touch that? How could she allow a man who'd overseen so many horrendous decisions of late touch that? She had to. She would not cringe. She would not hand him any power.

"Hermione, you are not defined by this scar…"

"Perhaps not. But I am defined by the legislation you continue to allow in the Ministry," she interrupted, "This isn't about me, or Tonks, or Remus or even Harry. It's about much more. Neville was absolutely correct. We cannot afford to be fighting this fight again in fifteen years."

Then it came. The irate excuses about residual power in the Ministry, the difficulty of navigating the Wizengamot with its much reduced and highly fractured membership, the complexity of the laws passed under Voldemort. Just as she had suspected they would, excuses, excuses that weren't good enough to justify what was happening under his leadership. Then he did it. Tumbled right into the web she had weaved. Explained the vile legislation away by claiming the trials had distracted him. She hoped her eyes hadn't lit up too brightly, but it didn't matter. He was caught.

"Ah yes, the trials. I'm surprised you feel they're taking up so much of your time. You didn't seem particularly well prepared at Lucius Malfoy's cross examination. Mr. Rosier almost had you there."

Kingsley paused, cautious now, this was not the conversation he had envisioned having today, "He didn't, thanks to you. The verdict will be delivered soon."

"It was an interesting bit of legislation I cited; don't you think? British law is so complex, especially when it comes to the recognition of post-coup governments and regime change. Mr. Rosier has been in touch since, advertising his firm to me. I trust the Ministry looked into the rules I spoke about?"

So, the young woman was considering a foray into the legal profession. Rosier's firm was famously reserved for Pureblood Slytherins, certainly every Death Eater he'd known had long running connections to the firm. He'd have to keep an eye on the man. On Hermione too. After the shakedown she'd delivered tonight, he would be avoiding the courtroom in her presence. He'd not had time to get to know Hermione Granger well, but he'd heard stories of her intelligence. The brightest witch of their time. Smart enough to access Ministry documents without tripping a single ward, too. Part of him wanted to avoid her forever, to punish her for her espionage, but the other half… perhaps the slightly bigger part of him, saw an outlet. Someone knew now. Someone who was wholly on the same side as he had been, he was, knew what was happening. He hadn't looked the rule up, of course, he'd been so relieved when she had shut the dismissal down that he'd simply counted his blessings and moved to put out another fire.

"I take it you didn't. Which means you don't know about the biggest issue of all."

The biggest issue? Beyond everything else she had confronted him with this evening, there was something else? It took every bit of his strength to stop him from just sinking to the ground and staying there. He was questioning how precisely he had been dealt such a poor hand. Surely this was supposed to be an easier time.

"It's not a law, is it?" His voice was resigned now. He'd gotten there, himself, just about.

"Only in the Muggle world, I'm afraid."

Both stood still for a moment, struck by the enormity of what that meant. While there was no legal basis to support Rosier's arguments that the legislation passed by the Thicknesse administration were legitimate, there was none to the contrary either. It would have created a lengthy legal argument that would have dragged, had it not been for her stealthy lie. Had Rosier won that argument, it would have set a legal precedent sufficient to free most of Azkaban. She had style, he had to concede. Rosier had apparently trusted in Hermione's reputation, and the confidence with which she had spun her lie. It wouldn't be the first time he'd missed something, usually to the advantage of the Ministry, thankfully. Kingsley looked over the small witch in front of him, and couldn't help but recall Neville's words: 'all of us are Gryffindors.' He'd seen her bravery, of course, but he considered how courageous this woman must be given how Slytherin-like she seemed under the soft moonlight tonight.

"The devil is in the detail, Minister."

"Isn't she just, Hermione."

They began the walk back up to the castle, the night sky dark now. They were close to the boathouse, but the blackness obscured the man who had been waiting there. They didn't see him throwing what looked like a long piece of string into the lake, where it generated soft waves before promptly sinking below the surface. Kingsley took her arm in his again, and recast the warming charm. Evidently, they needed a solution, and after this evening, he wanted Hermione on his team. He needed her.

"That needs to be written into law. I assume you have a plan. I assume you have a plan for most of it, really. What do you need from me, if you're going to help?"

"Authority. Find something that gives me the power to go into the Ministry, any department, and exercise change. Let me know as soon as you can, this week."

Kingsley nodded, and shifted his cloak to cover her slightly, he wasn't letting the only lifeline he had pass to hypothermia. She was smaller than he'd remembered, though certainly more fearsome. He tried to remember what he had anticipated when he'd read her letter, and for the life of him he couldn't recall. They finished their walk back in silence, though it wasn't tinged with the distastefulness Hermione had anticipated. As they stepped through the door to what was now an empty office, he became all too aware of the eyes of one particular portrait on him, and he turned back to the young woman.

"I'll owl you soon, Hermione. I'm impressed, this was not what I'd expected, very bold."

She smiled back at him, avoiding Professor Snape's intrigued expression, and turned to leave, "In the end, Minister, we only regret the chances we don't take."


	19. Robes

Robes

Hermione wasn't quite ready to return to her rooms. She wanted to find Neville, and suspected he may be looking for her too. She had taken more than the promised half hour, and though she knew Professor McGonagall would likely want an explanation, she didn't quite have one sufficient to answer her questions until she heard back from the Minister. Making her way to the library, determining that if Neville wasn't waiting there, he would be in the nearby Greenhouses with Professor Sprout, she allowed herself deep calming breaths for the first time that night as she felt the creeping exertion of an Occlumens, albeit one of demeanour.

The library was busier than usual. The cold weather having forced everyone inside the castle, and the deep running division of the Slytherin house had led to what she had heard were some testy moments in the dungeons. With exams approaching, she realised that the tranquil space she so loved would likely not return to that state until the Christmas holidays had begun. No sign of Neville, but she made her way to her usual spot, and spied him sitting at the table between a strange gap in the books around the alcove. He seemed calmer, at least. She took her new seat, the one Draco had demoted her to, and smiled at her counterpart. He returned it, easy and carefree as he usually was. They began a quiet discussion of the meeting, and Neville's impassioned speech had certainly had an impact. The Headmistress was willing to consider changes to the History of Magic syllabus, and the introduction of guest lecturers or perhaps the addition of another professor to the classroom from the next academic year. She agreed that at the very least, the First Wizarding War ought to be included, and she would provide to them some ideas on the subject after consulting with the other Headmasters and the Board. It would be a sensitive, they knew, but necessary change.

"She wants to talk to you about Muggle Studies. I told her briefly what you felt was missing, but you're the right person to do that Hermione. I don't really know all too much about Muggle history and culture, but Professor McGonagall is open to it, I think. Now, at least, she will listen. Bad news for the library though…"

Neville trailed off as Draco Malfoy approached, and as Hermione looked up made to turn away. It was only the soft scraping of the wooden chair opposite her on the flagstones that brought him to the table with a wry smile, taking a seat and opening his book. He didn't talk, but Hermione was under no illusion that he wasn't carefully listening to their conversation.

"Bad news for the library?" Hermione sounded scandalised, and Neville didn't miss the soft smirk that emerged on Draco's face.

"There's no budget for books on Modern Wizarding History, it's been spent on the castle repairs during the summer. Things sound… difficult. There isn't any literature on the latest war, of course, but it will be some time before anything can be purchased."

Draco kept his eyes tight to the book, though he had long forgotten what he was supposed to be reading. He turned the page, enhancing the act. _Well, well, the two Gryffindors were plotting change to the curriculum now. Arthur Weasley is bound to be pissed if they're meddling in his class. Not that it's useful anyway, after all, he still didn't have a clue what Muggles actually do. No money for the library books. He'd have to think about that one. _Chancing a quick look at the girl, her eyes were wide with a sadness that no one should hold over a library budget. Her nose twitched slightly, too, as if she was irritated. Subtle nuances that were really quite charming. She would get her books.

"…you and Kingsley were gone a long time, Hermione? Why was he at the meeting?"

Hermione blushed lightly, and Draco felt an instant dislike for the Minister. He was clearly some sort of idiot, disturbing a meeting he had no business being at. And where had they gone? Surely the Minister had better things to do than bother Granger. She wasn't quick to answer either, he noted. Why was that dolt at the meeting?

"Oh, we had something to talk about. A potential opportunity after graduation. I'm not sure why he arrived so early. We lost track of time, we walked down to Dumbledore's tomb."

Neville seemed satisfied enough with the answer, but the single arch of a platinum eyebrow on Draco's face signalled that her lie hadn't been good enough to evade his detection. Ignoring him, absolutely finished with intrigued Slytherins for the day, she tried to push the impending conversation with the Headmistress away from her. As she let out a little yawn, Malfoy threw his book back onto the shelf.

"Bedtime then Granger?"

Ignoring the fact that Neville lived in the same rooms as Hermione, and was perfectly placed to walk back with her, he waited for her to stand. The Head Boy, to his credit, remained seated despite a glint of amusement in his eyes as the Slytherin took her bag on his shoulder and guided her out of the library. Malfoy's arm was strong around her waist, beneath her outer robe, as he walked her toward her rooms. Her waist was thin, and he could feel the stiffness of her ribs playing along his thumb, while the waistband of her skirt lay beneath his palm. A year ago, he would never have imagined he would be touching her like this, let alone that she wouldn't be averse to it. A year ago, he'd been quite convinced he would never touch any witch like this again. Quite the contrary, she seemed comfortable in his arms. He hadn't held her hand since Godric's Hollow, and he almost wished he'd reached for it this time as he walked alongside her. Next time. Next time he would do it. He pushed away the knowledge that he swore that to himself every evening.

Draco's mood always dropped slightly as they approached the portrait, but he did his best to hide it and focus more on the buzz of excitement in his stomach. Every night he took her home, he recalled the way she'd held both of his hands after their evening on the Quidditch Pitch. She'd been beautiful in that moment. Invisible, technically, but he knew she'd been beautiful. He could feel it. Tonight, however, it became abundantly clear that it wouldn't be happening again, because Harry Potter was walking toward them. He felt the little witch tense slightly, but didn't move his arm. He might not be able to hold her hands, but he'd be damned if Potter would result in him dropping the all too comfortable arm around her waist sooner than he absolutely had to.

"'Mione, I was just coming to get you, you're later than usual?"

Potter seemed almost concerned. Obviously the boy was still spending nights in her bed. Draco wasn't sure why that wasn't a complete red flag, but this wasn't some random man, he supposed. This was her best friend, and he'd learnt the hard way not to judge the Golden Trio on face value. She allowed him to touch her, and that was enough to make him feel as if all wasn't as it seemed, at least. She was loyal, he'd seen that at the Manor, and hadn't given him any reason to doubt that over the past few months. Besides, news of a romantic relationship between two such worshipped heroes would have graced the Prophet by now. She was talking, something about Longbottom chatting to them. He squeezed her waist as he passed her bag to Potter, he could've sworn the satchel grew heavier each day. As Potter reached out to take it, they made eye contact for a moment. There was wariness, but not mistrust.

"Thanks Malfoy."

Draco nodded curtly, and ran his fingers gently around Hermione as he let go of her. He'd see her tomorrow, he knew. Maybe he would hold her hand tomorrow. Maybe. He returned to the stairs, heading toward the dungeons, using every bit of determination he had not to look back. He was sure if he did, he'd see Potter's eyes instead. As the two Gryffindors made their way through to their rooms, Hermione was struck by quite how polite and civil the interaction had been. They really had grown up, it seemed. Or perhaps they were just willing to set aside their own anger for her. Either way, it was greatly appreciated. They began to get ready for bed, with Harry in the bathroom brushing his teeth as Hermione relayed the Head's meeting to him, casually mentioning her conversation with Kingsley.

"I may have, uh, duplicated everything in Amos Diggory's office while I waited to give evidence at Lucius Malfoy's trial. The policies that were there, gosh… Harry. Nothing's changed since we regained control, put it that way, we haven't defeated them by a long shot. That ideology, it's embedded there."

Harry grinned, stealing confidential documents from the Ministry. Dreadful, but to be expected. You couldn't leave her without reading material for that long and not expect a modicum of trouble, "How exactly are you planning on changing those policies, Hermione?"

She paused, hesitating. Harry knew this was going to be good, it had to be if she wasn't sure she wanted to tell him. She began to briefly explain that she may have failed to mention that the law she'd cited at the trial was a Muggle statute. Harry's face was straight, and she couldn't quite read his eyes. Harry pulled her toward him, looking down at her chest with an amused expression.

"Harry?" Hermione's voice quivered slightly, unsure as to what he was doing.

"I'm just checking," he murmured, turning his head up to face her directly, "that your tie isn't emerald green."

He snorted with laughter: as much as Hermione could, and certainly would, attempt to deny it, she had regularly displayed vicious political aptitude since the first year he'd known her. Lying to McGonagall about the troll and setting a teacher on fire, and then the theft of potions from Snape's stores to brew an illegal Polyjuice the next year. Afterwards, it had been covering up for Lupin's lycanthropy and strategising to save Sirius. What a night that had been. Her capture and subsequent blackmail of Rita Skeeter's Animagus form after a year of particularly bad press. Marietta Edgecombe's boil scarred face in their fifth year, and so incredibly sorrowfully, seeing through Voldemort's vision of Sirius at the Ministry. Merlin, and Umbridge in the forest, she'd really come into her own that year. He was quaking with laughter on their bed now, unable to control himself. He felt a pressure on his stomach, and Hermione was pushing at him trying to stop his laughter. No, too late, there were tears now. For a Head Girl, she was certainly mischievous.

Soon she was giggling too, not because she agreed with his reading of her as a Machiavellian player in some sort of terrible game, but just from the absurdity of the situation. There was a long road to tread before she had made any real change, she knew that, but she'd blackmailed the Minister of Magic today. She couldn't quite believe it herself. Harry hugged her to him, body still wracked with amusement, and soon they were a pile of increasingly sleepy giggles on the bed. After a few hours of napping, she pulled the duvet over them and snuggled back into Harry's warm chest, giving him a small goodnight kiss before she fell asleep for the night.

Waking early the next morning, they ventured to the Gryffindor tower to see Ron. Hermione hasn't been there since the night of the last match, and smiled as she recalled memories of the rich Firewhisky that had allowed her to relax after such a difficult day. The Common Room was empty, and the house elves had just finished in there if the crackle of the kindling was anything to go by. It was by far the cosiest spot in the castle, and Hermione reflected on how much she missed the nights she'd spent with her two friends by the fire, reading over their often-horrendous essays and plotting things far too dangerous to be considered. They made their way up to the male dormitories, to wake Ron up, when Hermione's nose wrinkled in disgust.

No, the smell of teenage boy emerging from the fourth-year room was too much, and she returned to the cosy armchair she had long favoured for late night reading. Her thoughts were quickly disturbed, however, by a collection of footsteps from the stairs. Looking up, she wished she had used the time to read a book, anything that would give her reason to be distracted as Ginny emerged, accompanied by Parvati and Fay. Hermione wished she'd braved the disgusting odour with retrospect, but there was little to be done now.

"Good morning!" Hermione spoke brightly, hoping to diffuse the tension so often derived from silence, and hopefully put a positive spin on the interaction from the off. Judging from Ginny's facial expression, she hadn't succeeded. Parvati smiled, and Fay returned the greeting: they had shared a room for years and had become decent friends, but all quickly turned their eyes back to the red-headed girl.

"What are you doing here?" Ginny spat.

Hermione couldn't help but be surprised at the vehemence of the girl's tone, and remained as calm as she could, "I'm waiting for Harry and Ron, we'd planned to get breakfast together."

"Harry's not enough for you now? You're disgusting. I wouldn't take the Golden Trio stuff too seriously Hermione, you're not as attractive as the press are painting you, and certainly not enough to steal two wizards."

Ron and Harry emerged from the stairs, and walked over to Hermione who had so far remained seated in the armchair, doing her best to ignore Ginny's jibes. Yet she wasn't deterred in the least bit, either by Hermione's composure or the presence of the two older boys.

"Dad told me that you tried to interfere in classes too. You've really let things go to your head, haven't you?" Apparently incensed by the absence of any reply, Ginny's rant continued, "I suppose now you've got nothing left, you're holding on to the rubbish written in the Prophet as tightly as possible. We both know what you are, don't we? An orphan of your own design. Deny it as much as you want, but you really banked on getting the sympathy vote, that's…"

Hermione stood now, keen to avoid this escalating further if possible, and leave with her friends to breakfast. She wasn't able to, however, as Harry responded to his old girlfriend instead.

"Actually Ginny, it's great to catch you here. After some thought, I'm rescinding your position on the Quidditch team. I can't risk another outburst like last match, and you're making it quite clear that wasn't a one-off incident." Harry's tone was unwavering and firm, which couldn't have served to infuriate Ginny further had he tried.

She approached Hermione, and attempted to overshadow her with superior height, sneering down at her old friend, "That's what you do to those of us with natural talent, then? You whore around and get the positions we've earned taken away from us? Just like you're doing with my dad. He has always been interested in Muggles, but last night he hears from McGonagall that his classes might be changed. Apparently, they're not politically correct? And whose mouth did that suggestion come from? Yours apparently. Who the fuck do you think you are? You disgust me. He has done so much for you, and this is how you repay him!"

"Ginny, that's enough. Please. Let's go see Dad, you can talk to him." Ron urged, his attention now solely on his sister.

Both Harry and Hermione knew that their friend was doing his best to divert the situation, to protect them from his sister's anger, but still felt the familiar sting of abandonment. Hermione stiffened slightly, and for a split second felt just as small, just as alone as she had when he'd left them in the tent. During those months, in the cold forests of England, she'd thought a lot about betrayal. She'd determined, over too many hours of thought, that it was the worst pain to realise. When a friend is willing to hurt you so, for the chance to feel slightly better about themselves, she determined that to be a perverse sort of relationship. This wasn't the same, she knew that. She knew Ron. She knew this was to protect everyone. She didn't feel the sadness, the empty longing for Ron to return to her side that she had done back then. No, instead, she felt something new. A rush of gratitude for the man who stood beside her, the man who never walked away. Harry. She resisted the urge to turn to him.

As Ron walked beside Ginny, gently steering her toward the door, she turned to face the rest of the room for a moment, "Our Dad, our father who we take care of. Not yours. Never yours."

As opposed to their fathers, who they had carelessly lost, Hermione supposed. _Nice touch, Ginny, trying to poison Ron's words._ She didn't have it in her to be angry at the girl anymore, not really. After all, what is anger but the bodyguard of sadness? Perhaps now was the time to grieve the friend she'd come to like, to help, to support and now, to lose. Ginny might return to herself, at some point, but that wouldn't be for some time. Even then, some words burnt too deeply to ever become water under the bridge. Being sad, being angry, none of that would change the path Ginny had chosen. Time. Time was needed here. As the door shut behind Ron, she heard an audible release of air from Harry. She understood. It could have been far worse.

Harry gently threw his arm around Hermione, just where Draco's had been the night before, as they made their way down to the hall for breakfast. He would be in no rush to return to the Common Room again, and holding her now, he knew that he'd made the right decision. Ginny wasn't able to control her anger at the moment, and the last place she should be was on the Quidditch pitch. As they took seats beside Neville and Dean, a severe looking owl swooped down in front of Hermione and offered her a thick envelope from its leg. The package had the now familiar seal of the Ministry. Her stomach clenched a little, feeling the eyes of those around her fixing on the parchment. For the first time, she felt anxious that she'd failed. Kingsley could have simply reported her theft and damn the consequences, quit as Minister and that would be that. Kingsley might have found some sort of leverage on her in return, or on someone she loved. Yet the Owl remained on the table, anticipating a reply. A good sign, she suspected. She neatly opened the letter, and held it close to her to control the size of the audience as best she could.

_Dear Ms. Hermione Granger, O.M First Class;_

_We are writing to confirm your appointment as Senior Undersecretary to the Minister of Magic, as per your interview with the Ministry earlier this week. We have attached a program of renumeration, and we would like to hear your response to this no later than Monday 16__th__ November. While we appreciate you will remain in full-time education until your graduation from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry in the Summer, we understand that you will be sworn in at a date to be decided between yourself and Minister Shacklebolt. This will be relayed to our office, and appropriate arrangements will be made for you._

_We are also pleased to extend to you an offer of appointment to the Wizengamot. In light of your new position at the Ministry, as well as your actions during the Second Wizarding War and subsequent Order of Merlin First Class, the Ministry of Magic had determined that your proven good character would be a significant contribution to our judicial and legislative processes. You should arrange a fitting for your new robes with the Secretary to the Chief Warlock. They are waiting to hear from you._

_Kindest Regards,_

_Percy Weasley_

_Senior Personal Assistant to the Minister of Magic_

Tucked within the envelope was another, smaller scroll. According to the light script on the bottom of Percy's letter, script she knew to be Kingsley's handwriting, it was another Wizengamot appointment. So, the man had taken to giving her the decision on whether to pass this particular bit of post to Harry. She smiled, a small but genuine one; she had executed her plan about as well as she could have hoped. Turning to Harry, she handed the letter to him. He slipped it into his pocket, hoping to avoid attracting more attention. Hermione was busily penning a short, neat response on a piece of parchment she had retrieved from her satchel, and he engaged Neville in conversation to reduce the focus on her. As the stocky tawny owl finally flew away, her acceptance securely tied to its talons, Hermione reached forward and took a slice of toast from the rack in front of her. Harry wiped the residual tiredness from his eyes, but no, there she was; spreading thick blackberry jam across the golden crumbs. Her eyes caught his, sparkling honey orbs, as she bit into it. Delicious.


	20. Dirt

Dirt

A/N: This is a graphic, violent chapter that may be triggering on a number of fronts: it took me a while to write, as I carefully considered and reviewed everything that is included time and time again. It isn't mindless violence, everything has been written purposefully based on the triggers that have already been identified in earlier chapters, but it remains explicit and unpleasant nonetheless. If you are unsure of whether this is for you, please skip to the next chapter. You will be able to glean sufficient understanding of what has transpired from subsequent chapters without reading this one.

Hermione waited in the library for almost forty-five minutes, but Draco hadn't yet arrived. She considered returning to her rooms, but Harry would be quite some time at Quidditch and she really had wanted some company. It was almost as if she'd spent far too much time conniving within her own head of late, and with a weekend of homework ahead, she was determined to take her Friday evening to herself. Tucking her books into the satchel, she determinedly made her way outside. Perhaps Hagrid would be in, and she could enquire about Grawp over tea and his infamous rock cakes, and perhaps even avoid Fang's slobbering licks as much as possible. She had not visited Hagrid as much as she should have, and allowed herself to be overtaken with nostalgia as she exited the courtyard and onto the grass hill. She was almost halfway to the hut when she was interrupted by a crackle of magic, as though she was simultaneously floating and frozen. Opening her mouth to scream, she was met with absolute resistance and found she was unable to do so. Then, before she could sense her assailant, the world went black.

Blaise looked over the girl in front of him, panting slightly. It had taken a lot of effort to get her through the entrance, it was only the second time he had visited. He wasn't sure what this place was, but clearly the Mudblood and Draco had spent quite some time here together. It was filthy, and he supposed it befitted her. He looked at her face, scratches from her right eye down to her neck from where he had misjudged the angle to levitate her through the tree trunk. _Shame, always nice to start with a blank canvas._ _Well, it would be the least of her concerns soon._ She lay almost perfectly still: a taut expanse of long, slender legs, small feet, nascent ribcage and breasts. Almost still. Her eyes were wide, flicking around incessantly despite her temporary paralysis. _Archetypal Mudblood behaviour_, stuck somewhere between panic and assessment. _He'd soon wipe any thoughts of strategy from her head. She was his toy now._ She wore Muggle clothes. _Flaunting her dirty blood just as she had always done, unabashed in her filth._ Blue denim and flat sport shoes, presumably a blouse under a maroon Quidditch jersey. _Oh, yes, the sullying of the Mudblood would be even sweeter given she had Potter's name on her when she was taken. He'd be sure to leave the item draped over her when he was done. The boy would be welcome to what was left._

"You are far more tolerable when you're paralysed, you know? However, this won't be nearly as sweet without your reactions, so don't fret. You'll be freer to move soon, though perhaps only a bit."

Hermione lay as still as she could, desperately trying to maintain the man within her peripheral vision as he moved around the room. She knew where she was, she recognised the flooring, and her body ached from what she assumed had been a rough navigation of the entrance. First, he conjured a mirror. It was simplistic, full-length and able to stand on its own. Positioning it facing across the room from the door frame, she could sense more magic. Darker magic, by the way it crackled and the dread she felt in her veins. It reminded her of Malfoy Manor, and she felt goosebumps begin to emerge across her body. It was happening again. How long before anyone came to look for her? Hours, potentially. Even when they did, so few people even knew about the Shrieking Shack that it would take far longer to locate her until Harry sought her out on the map. The only person who could come to her rescue, Harry, and he was currently playing Quidditch. Not for the first time, she cursed the sport.

Zabini had come into view again, and ran his hand across her hips, dipping dangerously close to her intimate areas. His cast of the body-bind was sufficiently strong that she was unable to flinch, rigid and immobile even now. He didn't assault her. _Not yet._ Instead, she felt her wand slide out of her pocket and began feeling impending hopelessness. Her only real means of tangible defence was now with him. He was so much larger, so much taller and stronger, she knew, that physically she had no capability to overpower him unless he became significantly distracted. Yet what was there to be distracted by here? It was just the two of them.

"Crawl. Now, Mudblood."

She felt a harsh tug at her scalp, his hand pulling at her hair roughly as she began to feel her body soften somewhat. It would take a few minutes before she was able to move properly, she knew from bitter experience, but he showed no mercy. As if walking an ill-behaved dog, as her muscles slipped and failed to support her weight, he simply pulled her along by her hair; pain tearing into her. She collapsed back to the floor as his grip slackened slightly, as he dusted a small chunk of hair that had snapped off from his hand as if it were dirt. Before she fully recovered, however, she felt hot bonds on her ankles and yelped at the scorching pain. Dragged into the air now, his hands under her shoulders pulling her to stand, he extended her reach and her wrists felt the same burn. Her legs were slightly apart, and as she moved to bring them together, the burn returned. It was almost as if she were standing in a torturous buzz wire game, where she would be punished for any movement.

As she gazed ahead, trying desperately to calculate how to escape this prison, she saw her reflection in the mirror that was positioned to expose her in her entirety. Vaguely, she pondered how Zabini had found this place: was it from Voldemort's reign, or a more sinister consideration. Had he learnt of it from herself and Draco visiting it recently on the way to Harry's house? If this discovery was recent, then surely it wasn't a fluke. She found herself damning her lack of curiosity for what had happened at Hogwarts during the year she had spent living in assorted British forests, as she realised she would have to assume the worst and presume he had been stalking her for some time.

"Ah, yes, you've noticed the mirror. I wouldn't want you to miss out on seeing the show. You'll never forget the finer details this way. There will be a lot of special moments tonight, Mudblood."

He stood in front of her now, and pointed his wand toward the burning manacles on her ankles and they collided with her. Instinctively, she moved away from the pain and as a result spread her legs further apart. Hermione looked at him: expecting to see his face contorted into an evil smile, anticipating Death Eater robes, awaiting his eyes to go black. Yet the man who stood in front of her was precisely the same Zabini she had seen since her first year. His aristocratic sinewy build towering over her, as he always had in their seven years of Potions classes, and his dark complexion was clear as it always had been. His perfect teeth covered by sculpted lips, his nose sharp and haughty, his eyes were dark brown almonds. He did not appear outwardly evil, and she supposed that was how he had gotten as far as he had, as Professor Snape's words rung around her head. They were in the room the man had died within, and as she recalled his embarrassed recollection of the behaviours he had allowed Zabini to indulge in, she pondered whether she would pass here too.

"Look in the mirror, and keep your eyes open," his voice didn't waiver, firm in every move, with his grip strong on her chin.

It began there. He carefully removed her jersey with a neat disrobing charm, and he took good care of the Gryffindor sweater, folding it crisply and placing it on the ground a few steps away. His caution was apparently exhausted from that point onward, however, as he ripped off the blouse that remained underneath, the fabric resisting and digging into her skin as he tore. She tried to look away, desperate to avoid seeing her scarred arm and any display of her body, but a severe backhand to her face restored her attention quickly. She whimpered and struggled as he tore off her bra too, the metal underwire cutting into her breasts slightly as he showed no mercy.

"Oh dear. You have fat udders, Granger. You've been eating too much again, just like I warned you last month. Disgusting." Looking into the mirror with her now, he began to point out every fault, of which there were many she had failed to notice, "Look at yourself. Properly. You've let yourself get like this, so take in what you've done."

He pinched the soft skin of her upper arm, yanking it forward and explained to her how unbecoming large arms were. He even waited until she responded in agreement, before moving on to the next problem. Her stomach fat, rolling the skin painfully between his fingers, pulling at it until she ached and moaned aloud. He slapped her across the stomach with his full arm, and she buckled into the burning manacles that held her. He detailed how much her stomach reminded him of the pigs kept on the Manor's farms, and even joked about how difficult it would be to tell her apart from them if he brought her there. After all, she'd be at home in the mud. When she didn't laugh at his witticism, she was slapped into submission. Her ribcage, large and masculine, scarred and disgusting, but not nearly defined enough. Pinching the thin skin there between his nails until he drew blood and elicited bruising, he reminded her to keep watching herself.

She tensed as he touched her breasts, swallowing hard, unable to ignore what the likely result of being caught in such a way was any longer, "Oh I'm not going to rape you Mudblood. I wouldn't dirty myself. We are going to have lots of fun without putting myself at risk of catching a filthy disease… I'd rather like to ask instead how your breasts have succeeded to sag so low at our age? Like udders, aren't they? With teats that are wrinkled and hardened. I suppose my touch has you creaming your knickers, doesn't it Mudblood?"

She shook her head, accompanied by a pained 'no.' He took poorly to that, but instead of hitting her again, grinned and pulled at her nipples while stepping backward. She was thrust forward into the fiery shackles and yet he didn't stop, until her breasts were stretched and she was crying out in agony. He didn't insult her, just continued to remind her to watch in the mirror, twisting if she took her gaze off for even a split second. He expected her to humiliate herself and pretend she was aroused by his cruelty. She knew it would be impossible: she hadn't allowed Bellatrix Lestrange to better her, and while this was delivering far more psychological pain than the witch ever had, she refused to be cowed.

Moving on to her jeans now, he cut them off with a blade, leaving a thin slash down her left leg that only grew to sting more as he punished her for bleeding on the already filthy floor. She desperately wanted to turn away, horrified at seeing herself in the mirror and being so excruciatingly aware of the repulsive shape her body was in. She cringed and twisted, willing to take the red-hot restraints if it meant she didn't have to see her tummy anymore. Instead of beating her, he reached behind her and pulled her underwear up ruthlessly, callous as it tore into the delicate skin of her most private areas. With them riding up in the way that they had, she felt incredibly exposed in a way she'd never known. The mirror felt like a thousand eyes.

"No hair, Mudblood? I'd have thought you were as frizzy as your head. It's a shame, I'd imagined pulling it off with my hands."

It was true, he seemed genuinely sad from having lost the opportunity to cause her pain. She wasn't surprised any longer, she was simply adding further examples and context to Professor Snape's warning. This was not a Death Eater, not really, not someone who cared to follow others. It made him much more difficult to manipulate, and she didn't dare talk. This was a man who was playing to his own tune, his own desire to cause pain. He also kept escalating things: pinching to choking to public humiliation, and now, to this. There wasn't enough information to plan a way out, she was stuck. Stuck, tied like this, as he ripped her underwear from her.

"Your stomach fat didn't stop there did it, look at the way it pinches in my fingers. You have a fat pussy too, Mudblood," he laughed, as he pinched the skin of her pubic mound as though it was no different to her arms.

She was naked now, and he had her repeat back every fault he had showed her, slapping her thighs until they jiggled while she spoke. He keenly presented their movement to her, determined to remind her of his critique in Muggle Studies. Finally, as she completed his list, he had another request, "You're a fat, disgusting pig Granger. You can see it, you've just told me all the ways in which you're like a pig. We've even talked about how at home you'd be living with them. So now, you're going to oink like one. Now, Mudblood!"

Looking at him in shock, he cracked her neck back toward the mirror. _No. She would not do that. She would not play a role in her own degradation._ She did not shout, she did not deny, she simply ignored the request. He issued the demand again, and then again, shouting now. She ignored him. He waved his wand at each cuff, and she felt the new friction of nylon rope tug at her, but the fire was gone. He threw his wand over toward the broken desk and began his reprisal for her failure to behave as a pig. He began to beat her: a tidal wave of kicks, punches and slaps. Then the blade returned, slicing at her skin in a jagged randomness that quickly terrified her. She screamed until her throat grew hoarse, and the blood dripping felt ubiquitous. Her entire being was in agony. _She would not oink_. She did not relent. Finally, he seemed to tire from beating her, and she leant down further in the ropes that stopped her collapsing to the ground. She heard the buzz of a zip, and her eyes flicked toward the thick, slightly aroused penis that was inches from her face. _He'd said he wasn't going to rape her. She had trusted him. Stupid. What possible reason has he given to trust him? None. _Shame. She felt utter and absolute shame, not at what she was about to experience, but at her childish naivety in expecting a sadist to uphold his word.

"Open wide, Granger, trust me. This is healthier than the usual shit you keep shoving in your mouth."

When she refused to cooperate, he slapped her face hard enough that the crack echoed through the room. He pinched the bridge of her nose tightly until she gasped for breath and then focused his penis toward her, the unexpected stream of urine coming thick, fast and hot as she gagged. Most missed her lips, instead hitting the red, stringing skin of her face, before pouring down into the cuts that adorned the rest of her body. It didn't matter that it wasn't in her mouth, her humiliation was complete. Sobs wracked her body, as she tried to spit as much of the substance from her lips as possible before gagging and vomiting to the floor.

Far above the howling, wretching woman, Draco Malfoy walked across the grounds completely unaware of the nature of the danger Hermione was in. He had been finessing the ingredients required for the Moonseed vaccine and lost track of time. Usually he would have been in the library for well over an hour by now, but she wasn't there. Panicking, visions of her pointing her wand at her own head again, he ventured toward the Shrieking Shack. He couldn't recall the location of the cottage, and knew she had likely set up wards far too sophisticated for him to break, but he knew she would have to return through that blasted tree. He would wait there, and hope that he hadn't missed any spores. He couldn't believe she would go alone, there was no reason for it. He thought that she had learned her lesson, but he supposed he had made such a show of clearing the offending articles from the property that she might genuinely believe it safe. If she was hurt, he would never forgive her. Or himself. He swore as he noticed the tree was frozen, she had definitely been here. He didn't know of any others, besides Potter, who knew of the space beneath the tree. He hunted for a large stick, keen to extend the period of safety in case she was injured.

Meanwhile, Zabini was furious with Hermione. Vomiting on the floor, not taking what he had to give her. _The disgusting, filthy Mudblood._ He spat in her face, after she'd heard his incensed slurs. She would pay for rejecting him. He smiled at her, and revelled in the abject terror his expression held her in. Hermione was far from stupid; she knew that the sudden change in the man's demeanour did not bode well for her. Once he had tucked his penis back inside his dress trousers, he held two fingers in front of her face, she knew she was in trouble. The ropes were still tight at her wrists and ankles, as she twisted slightly to test them.

He reached forward to scoop a substantial amount of her bile onto his fingers, reminding himself that he could have her lick them clean afterwards, and walked around her. With his remaining free hand, he pulled one of her buttocks to the side, revealing what he had so briefly felt in the classroom some time ago. Hairless, like the rest of her, the puckered entrance was impossibly small. This was going to hurt. Gleefully, he shadowed his fingers over the entrance. Teasing her. She'd love the pain, she'd love it. He just knew it. Then, without warning, he jammed both fingers as hard as he could in the cleft. Only one of his fingers made any headway into the tight, virgin passage, and the residual liquid dripped down onto the floor. No matter. He'd have her lick up what he missed. He was enjoying this. She was silent and still. He'd been hoping she'd struggle and cry, but all in good time. As he stepped back to admire his work, the girl having frozen in shock several minutes earlier as his fingers had touched her most intimate area once more, he saw a figure appear in the mirror. Finally, Blaise had his friend beside him for the most glorious humiliation of his life. Hermione saw him too. In that moment, as Draco's wide yes met hers, she wanted to die.

"Draco! You came. I was hoping you'd find us, after the two of you showed me such a special place."

Malfoy was frozen. If he acted prematurely, Hermione could get seriously hurt. More hurt than she was already. He had to be careful, so careful. Trying to ignore the overpowering scent of urine and puke, he took in the scene. Zabini didn't seem to have a wand in either hand, and he couldn't see any outline in his clothes either, but now was not the to act rashly. This was too important. Tearing his eyes away from the mirror's image of the girl, he saw what Zabini was so interested in. He was molesting her. Rage engulfed him, and he frantically clawed it down. The effort was physically painful, and he ground his teeth together to stop the growl that threatened to emerge. His Hermione was being hurt by this animal.

"You see, look. This one is so tight I can't even lubricate her properly. You've come at the perfect time really. Remember Bones, last year? The way her arsehole reacted to a Crucio? I think it'll work for this one as well. If you cast, I can be ready to get my fingers in. You've even brought a treat for her! I'm sure with enough effort it'll fit. She always has had a stick up her arse, hasn't she? It'll be interesting to see how she copes. I think she'll be a screamer, personally."

The thick branch Malfoy had used to hit the tree knot clattered to the floor. He was dumbstruck. He'd actively fought Zabini on numerous occasions on this very issue. Hermione was off limits. Had the man finally lost his mind? He must have done, there was no other explanation for how he could possibly expect him to join in with the defiling of a woman he had come to care so deeply for. As if sensing his confusion, Zabini laughed.

"Oh Mudblood, he doesn't know yet. I completely forgot to tell him. She's a very naughty girl, Draco. She told a vicious lie at your father's trial. A lie that would send him to Azkaban, if it weren't for me. Do you want to tell him about your little trick?" Smearing his fingers over her cheek, she flinched slightly, "He won't rescue you once he knows, will he? Your knight in shining armour will be crushed. There is no law that limits the legality of actions under the Dark Lord, is there Granger? No. There isn't. She lied, and your father would rot in Azkaban if it weren't for me. I overheard her blackmailing Shacklebolt over it a few days ago. Stand in front of her, make her pay. Make her suffer with me, Draco. Lucius wouldn't survive Azkaban. She tried to kill your father."

She hadn't imagined that Draco would ever find out, at the very least in these circumstances. Yet now he had, and there was no pressing defence of her actions, no forgiveness. Instead, his eyes burnt into her with a sudden ire, grey eyes dark and features tensed. She hadn't seen him like that since before the war, and the transformation hurt her more than anything she had experienced so far that day. She had lost her dignity, she was likely to lose her life, but she had lost much more than that. Any chance at reform and change she'd plotted to gain, and perhaps most sadly of all, she had lost a friend. The loss of Draco even overcame her humiliation, and all she felt was regret. She had signed his father's death warrant, regardless of how relations had soured between the two men, she was trying to destroy his dad. Zabini scooped up more vomit to his fingers as Malfoy silently took the steps around her, blocking her view from the mirror and drew his wand. Pointing it directly at her face, sneering coldly, her eyelids fluttered shut in anticipation of the pain she was about to receive.


	21. Regret

Regret

"Incarcerous!"

Hermione's eyelids snapped open as the spell was cast, as a howl of fury came from her tormentor, now bound solidly in thick ropes. Draco had stepped away from the mirror, and she was stuck between a feeling of floating relief at the sight of the man who had abused her now captured, and crushing disgrace at being filthy and nude in front of Draco, him having just discovered her fraud toward his father. Perhaps he would continue her torture alone, having removed his housemate from the equation, and avenge his family. She was in no place to prevent him from doing so, still bound in the tight scratchy ropes that seized her so obscenely. She couldn't bring herself to look at him, and continued to stare toward the mirror, though her mind's eye was far from the image reflected back at her.

Intensely aware of the hurt she had caused the man she'd come to think of so fondly by meddling with Lucius Malfoy, she couldn't tear her thoughts away of what she had lost today. Lost herself, and lost society: the opportunity to overcome the stranglehold of prejudice, both legislatively and personally. Her hands burnt, not from the cruelty of Zabini, but from the knowledge they would never be held by the man who had sought to rescue her again. She had seen to that. Tears, tears of the kind that Blaise Zabini had been furious to find he could not extract from her, began to flow.

"It's okay now, Hermione. It's going to be better soon. Everything is going to be okay."

Draco's voice was soothing and low, just audible above her yelping cries, as he murmured quiet cleansing charms to remove the offending substances from her skin. He was being thorough, she could tell, as her skin tickled with the almost tender casting of the spells. Pausing for a moment to cast a body bind at the struggling, snarling man behind them, he held his arms around her as he removed the ropes from her extremities. She buckled into him, unable to support herself after the torture, and was indebted to the arms that engulfed her. Despite what she knew to be coming, the inevitable chain of events she saw, in that moment she felt safe in his warm, familiar grasp.

He held her close to him for a few minutes, letting her release her anguish into his broad chest. For a time, she forgot her nude vulnerability, and allowed her emotions release. As he rocked her against him as one would a small child, he felt her hips on his stomach, the bones jutting out, and his hands around her back could count her ribs. The witch felt impossibly frail in his arms, and if possible, he grew yet more incensed at the scum that lay metres away from them. _There was so much pain in this girl, in his little witch, that needed healing. The evening had only exacerbated existing concerns, concerns he should have dealt with if Potter was so incapable. Guilt. They had all failed her, after she had given them so much. No one more so than him._ He turned his neck slightly, so she could burrow into him more deeply, and looked around the room, which seemed impossibly still as though it were a tableau vivant. _The mirror._

Zabini had been unequivocally meticulous in his torture of the woman who now sat sobbing on his lap. He shouldn't be surprised, he knew, he had seen the results of his work before, though never had he had to restrain himself from casting an Unforgivable as a result. Truth be told, he'd never really noticed nor cared to know much about the man's proclivities. Until now. Perhaps that was bad, perhaps he should have cared before: yet it was the truth, it hadn't mattered, it had been so far down his list of priorities it wasn't a concern. Now, it was taking all of his restraint and every bit of sentiment he held for the despondent girl in his arms to prevent every dark art he knew from spilling over onto the monster petrified on the floor.

"You're safe now. He's never going to hurt you again, Hermione. You're safe with me. I'm going to give you my robe, to keep you covered. You're safe now."

Placing a tender kiss on her damp brow, he unclasped his robe. What had Zabini done to her? She was still bleeding, and shivering too, as he wrapped the material around her, buttoning it up over her chest and stomach, as she remained pliant in his lap. She was defenceless in a way he had never associated with Hermione Granger, and it took every ounce of his brain to stop himself from immediately carrying her out of there and screwing the consequences. The absence of any attempt to take control of the situation by her had him worried, he certainly hadn't arrived as soon as she'd been taken. Who knows how long that fiend had her captive? A copper scent overtook the smell of urine and vomit now, and he was shocked by quite how much blood there was smeared over the floor and across her petite body. He knew she must be in agony, given the extent of her cuts and bruises, there hadn't been a two-inch gap between injuries. Yet she wasn't expressing physical pain, not like last time he'd found her after the Moonseed, now she was just caught up in relentless sobs. He pulled her closer, so he could whisper into her ear.

"Hermione, I need you to listen to me. Can you do that? Please?" She didn't respond, so he held her hands and urged her to look at him, "Hermione, before we get out of here, I need to remove his recollection of you telling Kingsley about my father, otherwise Zabini will tell the Aurors. I need you to tell me exactly what I'm looking for, so I don't cause noticeable damage. Please Hermione, this is so important. No one can know. No one."

She looked up at him blankly, and whimpered. She could not compute what the man was saying, and her eyes kept shifting over to the mass of ropes on the floor, as if to confirm her persecutor was still restrained and this wasn't some sort of awful trick. She felt far from safe: the man who had just discovered she had conspired to send his own dad to prison had given her a scrap of dignity back, and now… now she wasn't quite sure what he was talking about. _The lie, the memories, removing? But then no one would know? _She whimpered again, confused but with no clear idea of what to say besides answering his question.

"Not Dumbledore. By the lake," she gasped out through her tears, "Kingsley near the outbuildings."

Despite her emotional state, he grasped the context of her words. He had to look for her and Kingsley speaking by the Boathouse. He gently laid her on the ground, wincing at the filth there, but he kept her as far as possible from the puddles of bodily fluids on the floor, with some of the large robe gathered beneath her head as a barrier. His heart ached as she curled herself into a foetal position, and though he hadn't thought it possible, he despised the man before him even more for forcing him to take these precious moments away from comforting the girl. _Fragile now, fragile before too. He had been so remiss, when she hadn't. Protecting him silently. Who knew he'd owe his sanity, if not his life to Hermione Granger?_

Summoning every word he could of his Godfather's legilimency lessons, he explored the recesses of the twisted mind that lay before him. _Hermione. Hermione._ He needed to remain calm for her, but he was being bombarded by what Zabini had done and what he would have gone on to do_. _Gritting his teeth, he searched deeper, and there it was. An extendable ear by the boathouse, Hermione and Shacklebolt talking politics. _Duplicitous, conniving, brilliant witch._ The entire memory had to go, he knew that, no one could know. He was sure he'd ensnared the whole thing, yes, there Zabini was, dumping the string into the lake.

"Obliviate."

Ensuring the bonds were taut around the pitiful excuse for a human being frozen in front of him, he turned his attention to the prone form of Hermione Granger. Ensuring his robe was meticulously secured, he lifted her into his arms with ease and began the walk toward the root he had entered through. She was the most precious thing he'd ever known, there in his arms, completely dependent on him. He had believed Zabini had tortured her into wetting herself, a reaction he'd often witnessed last year, but the reality of what the monster had done to her was devastating. He felt sick beyond his stomach as he felt her fidget slightly in his arms as if to reassure herself she was covered. She seemed so conscious of herself, to the extent that it was bothering her more than the pain she must have been feeling, and it was crushing to see. _She has nothing to feel ashamed of. He had to make sure she knew. Soon._

He carefully lifted them out of the trunk, and sprinted out of reach of the Whomping Willow. She had not survived this entire encounter to be taken out by a tree. He would not be responsible for any further harm to the young woman. Already, he was kicking himself for not dealing with Zabini more permanently after he had first attacked her in September. His hesitance had cost her, cost her things she wouldn't get back_. Why hadn't he held her hand last night on the way to her dorms? What if she never wanted to be held again? Held by him?_ _After all, this stemmed from his damn father._ Had Zabini not had the leverage he needed to act so boldly; she would be reading in the library across from him now. He could not believe that, yet again, the Malfoy name had brought her such pain.

Her face was nestled in his chest again, just as it had been after she'd had the allergic reaction. This time, however, he suspected it was so she wouldn't have to meet his eyes. He could not imagine how she felt; he knew she was a proud witch. She'd had to be, the amount of abuse she had suffered for her ancestry. Particularly from himself. She'd fought so hard to hold her head up high, and that was precisely why Zabini had targeted her. He had seen the wave of shame in her eyes as he saw her in the mirror, and there was little he could do for now except not leave her side. He vowed that he would not allow her to feel ashamed, not in front of him. _Never again._ He knew there was little chance she would want to see him again after she recovered, after she had time to process that had it not been for his family, she would likely not have experienced this. Until she pushed him away, though, he wasn't going to leave her side. He knew she felt impossibly exposed in his arms as he carried her up the hill, despite his thick velvet winter robes bundled around her, with the distant shouts of the Quidditch pitch the only noise in the darkness. He tirelessly checked to make sure his cloak was still wrapped around every inch of her. No one would be seeing her like this, she had suffered enough affronts of her dignity for a lifetime.

Finally, they had reached the courtyard. He stole another glance, to confirm she remained appropriately covered, and tucked her legs around his waist. She didn't resist him, at all, she allowed herself to be manipulated like a rag doll. Not the Hermione he knew, it was disconcerting. Her legs were light and loose, as though she couldn't grip properly, and he was increasingly concerned about the level of damage that animal had done to her. He needed to get her to the Hospital Wing. Dashing up the stairs, absorbing as much of the movement as he could in his legs to keep her steady and comfortable, he roared at the throng of students to move out of the way as he rounded the last staircase to the fourth floor. The doors to the infirmary were shut now, but taking the girl's weight on his left arm, he was able push the door open with a powerful kick from his right leg. Immediately, there was a cry of annoyance from inside the office, only silenced when the Matron saw who he held. Draco carried Hermione gingerly to the nearest bed, and gently laid her onto the mattress.

Madam Pomfrey didn't waste precious time on futile questions, but rather immediately made a series of complex wand movements that Draco knew to be diagnostic spells. The woman paled somewhat with the results, and Draco clutched Hermione's hand tighter, slowly massaging the muscles of her dorsum. He was only mildly surprised that the mediwitch didn't ask him to release the girl, or prattle on about the visitation policy, but rather calmly took the time to interpret Hermione's condition without disturbing the robes wrapped tightly around her. Finally, she administered a strong sedative, and Hermione's tense hand finally lay peaceful within his.

He blinked away the whisper of a tear as he took in a sight he'd never thought possible: Hermione Granger, body battered and soul cut, pale and feverish, wrapped in his robe like a baby with her hand in his. It was too much, knowing that had he bothered to turn up to the library on time, this may not have happened. Knowing that had his father not invited the Dark Lord into their house, this may not have happened. Knowing that had he put up a better pretence at the Manor, she may have escaped the last few years entirely unharmed. So much of this was as a result of his family, of his behaviour, and for the first time since the war he felt a genuine remorse that had nothing to do with the changes to his personal circumstances. _What was it about this perfect little witch that made him… feel things, feel so deeply and so personally? What was this magic she held?_

As if through a fog, he sensed that someone was talking. He looked up, and Madam Pomfrey raised an eyebrow and repeated her question. She wanted to know what had happened. Before he had a chance to even contemplate an answer, the enormous oak doors swung open violently once more, and the sweating form of Harry Potter appeared.

"I saw you… carrying her… what happened? Who hurt her?" He panted, taking Hermione's other arm into his still-gloved hand.


	22. Envy

Envy

The words, at least those he was able to summon, had been slow to come. To take what he had witnessed and push it out into the world seemed an act of depraved pollution, and it hardly surprised him that his tone was quiet. The day had seen enough violence without the need to recount it. While he logically understood that Hermione was sedated and wouldn't hear him, he felt as though his verbalisation in her presence would only serve as another bruise, another scarring injury he would inflict. Yet he could not leave, he would not, he kept her hand in his and he explained as best he could that the school needed to summon the Aurors and go to the Shrieking Shack to retrieve Blaise Zabini.

Draco was vaguely aware of the blur of activity around him, but felt unable to observe it as he knew Hermione would want him to. _Potter would have to pay attention for her. Another way to disappoint._ McGonagall was there, Slughorn and, of course, Pomfrey. He knew they were speaking to him, but what they said remained a mystery. He was consumed by something much more important, the hand he had the privilege to hold until she woke and took it away from him, never to return. There was a nebulous moment where a man in a thick black cloak adorned with the over-familiar glint of gold Ministry buttons that signified the Department of Magical Law Enforcement stood before them. _Just like over the Summer._ The man kept staring at Hermione, who remained far from the world and peaceful in her sleep, as though expecting something different, something more from the gravely ill girl. Looking over, Potter was bristling too: clearly whoever this overly involved wizard was, he wasn't particularly welcome. The Auror pushed something into Potter's hand and walked away.

As Draco shrank back into the precious hand he held, he caught a glimpse of what had been returned: Hermione's wand. Longer than his own, by at least an inch. Different to the one he vaguely remembered from school, the one that had so brutally rejected his father when he took it from Scabior. This wand was Poplar wood, warmer and darker. A wand that got to be held by her every day. A wand she would hold forever. He wasn't sure how it had come to this, a time when Draco Malfoy felt jealous of a piece of wood, but it had all the same. The return of her wand meant more, too; they had been to the Shack. To that room, where everything had happened. Though the hospital wing was humming with movement, building to a crescendo, it felt foreign to him. All he could see, feel and think of was the little witch lying in the hospital bed that seemed overwhelmingly large for her, still wrapped and protected by his robes; one hand in his, her other with Potter. All he could know for sure was that she needed this, and perhaps more truthfully, he needed this. To be there for her, as he should have been hours ago. _Too little, too late_.

His chain of agonising regrets was interrupted as Madam Pomfrey returned, "Mr. Malfoy, Mr. Potter. I need the two of you to leave, you have your own beds to sleep in, and Miss Granger will still be here in the morning should you wish to visit…" quelled somewhat by the vicious expressions of the two men, the woman faltered, "I need to examine her, properly, and it is inappropriate for you to remain." Neither boy made any attempt to move, nor respond to the stern Mediwitch. Clearly infuriated, she huffed, "At the very least I need to put up a curtain. You will not take away Miss Granger's modesty. Surely you can see that is of upmost importance."

While Harry seemed a touch quelled with the knowledge that he would not have to leave Hermione's side by returning to the Gryffindor tower, Draco was most certainly not. He was not letting her hand go, not until she dragged it away from him. For the first time in what seemed like days, he responded, throat already gruff from disuse.

"I need to hold her hand. Put the curtain between us," the man spoke, his tone brokering no argument.

Harry was surprised when Madam Pomfrey did not proceed to throw Malfoy from the Hospital Wing, with sharp words and a detention. The Slytherin hadn't even looked up to address the woman, merely continued watching Hermione. Instead, the matronly woman drew the curtain sharply around the bed, allowing the curtains to meet where their hands were joined. Not wishing to cause any more frustration that may result in them both being removed, Harry waited patiently on the other side of the curtain without making any such demands, relieved that someone at least had Hermione's hand. Draco, for the first time in a while, began listening closely to his surroundings. He wanted to know what damage there was, what pain his inability to keep time had led to. He knew that the woman meant to examine Hermione physically, and so was hardly surprised when she questioned him as the familiar clip of the robe being unfastened passed his ears.

"Mr. Malfoy, was she undressed when you found her?"

"Yes, I… I wrapped her in my robes."

She didn't react, but he suspected his voice was not low enough for Potter to avoid hearing that his friend had been naked when she'd been found. He wasn't sure what that would mean to the boy: offence that another, that his long-time enemy of all people, had seen Granger nude, or would he be shrewd enough to understand the horrendous implications of her being attacked and unclothed? He hoped it was the latter. He had barely noticed her state of undress beyond her own wretched shame and the acts that Zabini had been preparing to unleash upon her. She would need Potter to be there for her. _Especially once she came to terms with his own failure to protect her properly, and inevitably wanted nothing more to do with him._

Pomfrey was clearly inspecting the deep cuts, bruises, and marks that adorned Hermione. For many, of course, a salve would help. Some, however, were sufficiently deep that it would take longer to heal. Draco hoped none would scar, though he knew his faith was futile, he knew the type of injuries that scarred. He knew them well. After that came diagnostic charms he recognised, charms the Dark Lord had cast on those who had been tortured by the Death Eaters, charms that would corroborate the extent to which his followers had obeyed his orders. He knew what the charms would say, he'd witnessed it after all. He had seen what Zabini had done, and what he was planning. _With an implement he had delivered, how could he have been so stupid? _As a soft blue glow filtered through the curtain, he heard Madam Pomfrey gasp. She knew now. She had an idea at least.

On the other side of the cubicle, there was a greater deal of confusion. Truth be told, Harry wasn't quite clear on what had happened. All Malfoy had managed to say was that Zabini had captured and abused Hermione, and that they would find the boy restrained in the Shrieking Shack. He had given no indication of how he had found them, how he knew of the building, nor did he instruct them to access it via the Whomping Willow. So, with a dearth of details and a growing concern and frustration at the less than positive indications that he had heard from behind the curtain just moments ago, he was not altogether displeased to see two Aurors enter the Hospital Wing, accompanied by the Headmistress.

One of the men was tall and broad, with long hair tied into a neat bun, and Harry recognised him as the Auror from the Department of Mysteries. The other, he couldn't place at all: average and non-descript in almost every way, something didn't sit quite right. Mousy brown hair, combed neatly, and a soft wrinkled brow with little evidence of his age. Only as Madam Pomfrey drew the curtain around the wider group, her examination now complete, did it become clear who the absurdly middling man was; as he pointed his wand at himself and cast multiple counter spells and removed the glamours that had shielded his real identity. Minister of Magic, Kingsley Shacklebolt, visiting Hermione.

"Harry. Mr. Malfoy." If Kingsley was surprised to see the former Death Eater there, clutching Hermione's hand tightly, he certainly didn't show it. "I'll let Auror Williamson fill you in on the details, but I wanted to visit and ensure that Hermione will recover well, and personally oversee the investigation. I reassure you that we are taking this matter extremely seriously, and have made an arrest."

Personal visits from the Minister of Magic. Hermione had clearly made an impact on the man, who didn't seem to carry much anger at all from her approach. Harry pondered whether it was a well-practised false tranquillity or gratefulness for her support, regardless of how it had been provided. He suspected it was more the latter, he had always known Kingsley to be a pragmatic member of the Order. His expression was gentle, apparently genuinely struck with concern for Hermione. Harry returned to his seat, and took her hand once more. He noted that Malfoy had remained true to his commitment, and was now gently running his fingers across her wrist. Affectionate. Not a term he would have previously associated with the boy, but accurate all the same. By the look of disgust on Auror Williamson's face, he'd noted the interaction too.

"Mr. Potter, should we remove Malfoy? This is a sensitive conversation."

Silence. Was the man blind? Malfoy looked utterly enchanted by the girl, unable to look away, and was the only one who had not shifted to look at the apparently nonplussed Auror upon the question of his own removal. Instead, the group saw him squeeze her hand slightly, just as she had done to him as they parted ways the day of the Muggle Studies incident.

"Ah… okay. We have acted on the information provided by Mr. Malfoy, and found Mr. Blaise Zabini restrained and paralysed in the master bedroom of a property on the edge of Hogsmede village. He has been taken into custody on suspicion of abduction, grievous bodily harm and sexual assault. We may seek to escalate this latter charge to rape, once we have been able to speak with Miss Granger. We are building a picture of what has happened, and believe it to be premediated…"

_Rape. Sexual Assault. Rape._ Harry looked toward Malfoy, and saw no change in expression, no shock from the man who had rescued Hermione. If he didn't seem surprised with the charges, it was clear that what happened in that place had been brutal and sadistic. This was not what he had thought, this was not another Bellatrix Lestrange. This was not a repeat of what had caused so much damage: crushing nightmares that brought her to screaming tears, clinging to him in the night, her willingness and apparent desire to starve herself into exhaustion and illness, the bruises and cuts across her smooth, pale skin from her own nails and fingers, and the way she ran from the slithering panic that consumed her when overwhelmed and had her running from the room. This was not a repeat of that. This was worse.

"…but we will require witness statements from the two of you before we can confirm this. Given that Miss Granger was the victim, we are keen to determine if this is an example of Death Eater activity. We did clear the suspect over the Summer, but this level of violence against a War Heroine is something we'll certainly be looking into. It's presumably no coincidence. Zabini has indicated his legal appointment to be a Mr. Cepheus Rosier, so once charged we would anticipate a defence case being brought."

Harry was consumed by a devastating squeeze of culpability. His best friend, the girl who had saved his life countless times, who had been willing to die to help him, who had taken the brunt of the war, had been attacked again. And where had he been? Quidditch. Enjoying himself while she suffered at the hands of that vile animal. Shame. It was Harry's most enduring companion, his only confidante as a child in that cupboard, one that had grown with him over the years. It was with him now, on him almost, like a vice. He could barely look at her, let alone the man across from him, who had rescued her from the clutches of her assailant. Their one-time enemy had been her saviour, while he flew around a pitch for his own amusement as she was assaulted. Assaulted in a way he could not quite fathom, so foreign was the idea of doing anything like that.

She was dressed in a thin white hospital gown, though remained covered in Malfoy's robe as a blanket, seeming to snuggle into it even in her unconscious state. In her new gown, Harry was able to better see the damage inflicted upon her. Her neck had slash marks, bruising and a bite mark deep enough to rival Bill's. The bruises that seemed to darken near the high neckline of the gown were horrifying: a revolting tease of what lay beyond. Her skin, her beautiful skin, had been tainted by an animal. How could he have left her to this? How could he have been so absent that this had even been possible, and yet sit there holding her hand as though he was any equivalent to Malfoy? He was a pretender. Suddenly nauseous at the idea of holding her hand, as though his very touch would scald her painfully, he let go. He released her slight fingers, allowed himself to graze his hand over them one final time, and ran from the room. In front of the Minister, the Headmistress, the Auror, the Mediwitch and perhaps most crushingly, Malfoy, he ran away from his 'Mione in what appeared a stunning abandonment. She couldn't be his any longer, she was too precious to be entrusted to his care. Today had proven that.

Harry dashed away fast, and it was all Kingsley could do to keep up with him. Clearly running all over the country last year and a heady Quidditch training regimen had kept the young man fit. He shadowed him, as Harry bounded down a flight of stairs and through an endless corridor until he collided with the very person it seemed he was looking for.

"Harry? What's up, mate?," came the bewildered tone of Ron Weasley.

"It's Hermione. She's been hurt, very badly, she needs more than just me. Come on, I left her with Malfoy, she's in the Hospital Wing."

"Oh. I can't come, I've got things to do. I hope she gets better soon though."

Kingsley couldn't see Harry's expression, but he was convinced he himself was close to mirroring it. He had been of the understanding that Ron and Hermione, well, that that was a decided upon fact of the Wizarding World according to Molly Weasley. Regardless of what their own opinions on the matter were. Yet now the boy didn't have time to visit her? Strange. He was relieved it was a late Friday night, as he'd certainly failed to replace the glamours and the raised voices that were inevitably going to emerge from this conversation were sure to draw a crowd.

"What? She almost died tonight; she's still sedated. She needs you."

"I just can't. I'm sorry I can't be with Hermione, I really am, but I can't go to her; she made her choice and now I have to take care of the consequences."

It was not the response that Harry had anticipated, and he rounded wildly on Ron, his face reddened with fury and scar beginning to hurt from the accrual of pressure, "She made her choice? She's your friend, she's your best friend. Her not wanting to date you means you'll push everything she's done for you aside and abandon her?"

"I'm not leaving her behind. I just have to get on with my life, and right now my family is falling apart. My little sister is broken, my parents are struggling. They don't like her. She let them down. What do you want me to do, let them down too? Why are you even here? Why have you left her with a Death Eater? Where were you when all of this happened? Why didn't you look after her? Or is that beneath you now?"

A clash of fist against face and a satisfying crunch later, Ron fled with a broken nose bloodying the stone floor, while Harry kicked the air behind him in his desire to further damage the man. Harry felt a corrosive hatred towards the fleeing boy, something had broken between them. The same thing that had broken when Ron had left the tent, only now the illusion that it could be repaired was well and truly shattered. A strong hand gripped Harry's shoulder, firm and unyielding, unafraid of the young man lashing out. Kingsley looked him in the eyes, brown eyes filled with the promise of tender empathy, and Harry allowed the first tear to escape. He vaguely felt himself being nudged toward an empty classroom, and when the heavy door slammed shut, he fell to the ground and sobbed. Harry Potter, the War Hero, the Chosen One, sat bawling on the floor in front of the Minister of Magic, as though the sky had fallen down upon him. Kingsley sank to the floor next to him, an arm wrapped softly around the boy's shoulders, and gave him the space to collapse in on himself.

Kingsley examined the man who sat before him. He was quite unlike his father, openly crying in front of him. It was not a bad trait, not at all: while he himself had developed a cool, calm exterior, he more than respected those who wore their emotions on their sleeve. In Harry's case, it had proved particularly admirable. The Final Battle was never far from his mind, the revelation of love as the strongest form of magic, a magic he himself had never been privileged enough to hold. Harry and Hermione were close, they always had been, he had seen that at Grimmauld Place, at the Ministry of Magic. Perhaps they were in a relationship? While he considered the two of them problematically competent in keeping secrets, he rather suspected they would have been spotted by the Prophet by now. There was also the presence of Draco Malfoy, clutching her hand as if it were a lifeline tethering him to Earth. What was that about? He didn't believe for a moment that the young man had accidentally stumbled upon Hermione being held in the Shack, yet nor could he believe that the young man had anything to do with the crimes he had taken action to stop and report.

Distracted by his train of thought by the sudden gasping cries coming from Harry as he attempted to calm his breathing down, he increased the volume of his own inhalations to provide a manageable rhythm to be emulated. Harry was guilty about the harm Hermione had come to, of course, feeling the burden of her pain as he had always carried that of those around him. He could reassure him that the fault lay solely with the direct perpetrator, perhaps, but Kingsley knew the words would fall on deaf ears. They always had. There was certainly something very special about Hermione. He'd known that for a long time, from the tales Sirius had regaled them with of the daring rescue she had led at first, and then more. He had seen her, really seen her. Seen the way she was the cool, collected thinker of the trio, yet had gallantly gone to the Department of Mysteries and stood between her friends and death on a hunch she fervently disagreed with. Her superior spellwork was no doubt responsible for their survival until the Order had arrived. He had seen yet more of her recently, as an able political manipulator, yet guided by an undeniable virtuousness that he had reluctantly recognised after their conversation. She was no Lucius Malfoy. She was no Cornelius Fudge. She was, every inch of her, uniquely Hermione Granger.

Wryly, he shook himself for the recognition that had he been twenty years younger, she would no doubt have been a paramour he would have pursued without question. He was a selective man, but whatever it was the witch had, she had it in spades. It was no wonder Harry felt so protective of the girl, and it seemed she had even attracted the devoted interest of the young Malfoy heir if the display in the Hospital Wing was anything to go by. She was someone to be safeguarded, and he would have to ensure she wasn't open to any such attack again. It wouldn't do to have Harry Potter so distraught again, over something preventable. She needed protection. It was his duty as her employer, after all.

Almost a whisper, Harry finally choked out words through his tears, "I'll take the job. I never want to go on a broom again. I just… I just want to keep her safe."

Kingsley looked at the desperately guilty expression on Harry's face, and spoke softly, "I'm afraid, Harry, that I won't be able to accept that confirmation until I speak to my Senior Undersecretary. I believe she may have some input, and I'm far too nervous of my new advisor to exclude her."

Back in the Hospital Wing, Draco Malfoy remained in his chair, still struck at the sudden departure of Harry Potter. It was the last thing he'd expected, to see him leave Granger behind, and it must have been unusual given the response of Shacklebolt. Unwilling to expend too much mental energy on anything other than the woman whose hand he held, he pushed away hopeful thoughts of Potter kicking Zabini to death as an added bonus for his sacrifices during the war. No, too much violence today already. Her hand felt slightly warmer in his, now, and for that he was grateful. Her other hand was left neglected now, and he reached forward to bring it in his. Just like that night. Where he'd been held by her, when she'd danced across his heart and branded him with an excruciating need for her.

He was pleased for her sedation, her sleep. Not only did it prolong the time he was able to be close to her, to hold her before she furiously expelled him from her life, but it would save her from the aching sting of healing wounds. A sting he knew all too well, from the thin bullwhip his father would have him retrieve from the stables at the start of each summer. How he had dreaded his father receiving notice of his results, knowing the deep lacerations that would tear into his back as his father demonstrated his fury at the 'Mudblood' humiliating the Malfoy name. It had grown beyond that, quickly. Every detention. Every failed Quidditch victory. The aftermath of the ferret incident. The bullwhip morphed into short bouts of the Cruciatus Curse, and the occasional beating, as his father's life steadily became dominated by the Dark Lord. He had grown to know pain, and while there had been some respite while his father was imprisoned, his mother had refused to leave and the pain soon returned, amplified, necessitating longer recovery periods.

His mother had done her best, she had done what she could without his father seeing. His gentle cleansing charms had been those she had softly murmured at him after particularly violent bouts with his father: the loving warmth of a thorough yet gentle sponge bath, and the sensation of being cuddled dry within a towel. It mimicked the care of the House Elves, and any sheen taken off by the feeling being the result of a spell was overtaken by the fact his beautiful mother was taking the effort over him. He imagined that Hermione had likely experienced the real thing. Not the violence, but the physicality of a nurturing mother that was surely the only option for Muggles. A year ago, he would have scoffed at the idea of such time being wasted, but now, looking at the little witch? He could only wish that he had been able to bathe her, cleanse her, dry her and repeat that innocent kiss he'd placed on her brow without the help of any magic.

As a despondent Harry Potter trudged his way back into the Hospital Wing, accompanied by a concerned looking Kingsley, Draco stood and passed her right hand over to the boy. He took it without question, cradling it in his, and they shared a split-second glance at one another before they returned to their bedside vigil.


	23. Orders

Orders

It was three days later when Madam Pomfrey finally called in reinforcements. She had been unable to convince either Harry or Draco to leave Hermione's side. While she was glad to see cross-house camaraderie emerge the morning after the attack had taken place, she was less than thrilled to discover it was over the sharing of a slightly altered vanishing spell that was sufficient to remove any need to let go of the young woman for a bathroom break. She had believed they would finally take some time off as she saw the dry lips of the young Malfoy boy, and heard the ostentatious grumble of Harry's stomach. Yet not ten minutes, the squeaky voice of a house elf and the murmuring of a breakfast order later, this too had been foiled. Little did Hermione know, still anaesthetised as her broken ribs healed, that S.P.E.W had gained a new supporter in the form of the school's matron. Eventually, after the young men threatened to overcome her delicate nostrils with their increasingly intense body odour, she visited with the Headmistress.

"Minerva, they smell. Quite frankly, they haven't showered for three days and my ward smells of unwashed man. Potter is still in Quidditch robes, and he smelt less than pleasant when he arrived. It's supposed to be sterile, and the effect they may be having on people who are already delicate, not least Miss Granger… I want them out."

The Headmistress sat across from the matron, who she knew to be quite capable of casting a very strong cleansing charm on the two boys. However, clearly their ability to thwart all of their bodily functions in favour of overseeing the recovery of Hermione Granger had aggravated the witch, and she wanted the Hospital Wing back under her control. She had to appreciate the inventiveness of the two young men, as well as their apparent dedication to the girl. _Potter? Well, that was to be expected, but Mr. Malfoy? Very surprising indeed._ Apparently, she had been correct to trust her Head Girl last month, the girl's opinion of the Slytherin having been well placed if recent events were anything to go by. Ignoring the twinkling eyes of Albus, and the single raised eyebrow that signified Severus' amusement, McGonagall weighed up the options.

"I understand, Poppy, but I don't want to upset Mr. Potter any more than he has been already, and I'd like to see Mr. Malfoy's devotion for myself. Let's have a house elf retrieve fresh clothes for the two of them, and then perhaps we can, at the very least, eliminate any bad odours. I'd like to see Miss Granger anyway."

It became apparent that Madam Pomfrey was not mistaken when it came to the potential hygiene issue on the ward. There was a definite funk of stagnant perspiration on the discarded leathers of Harry's quidditch uniform tucked beneath the bed, and both young men had expressions of such exhausted commitment that Professor McGonagall in that moment felt tired. Really tired, as though the world had drained her of everything she had. Removing them would be futile, she knew, and she was loathe to eliminate support she suspected would be critical for Hermione. Each man held one of the girl's hands, chairs pinched tightly against the cot to ease the angle of her arms. Harry looked lost to his own thoughts, absentmindedly stroking her wrist with his thumb as their fingers lay linked together. Malfoy, however, seemed much more focused. He had a thick wad of parchment in his lap and was speaking softly. Pausing to listen, the Headmistress heard him murmur what seemed to be book titles.

"What about this one? Wizarding Conflict, Global Crises (1911-1945). I think you'd like it, the author, she's an Arithmancer with a predilection for the history of both our worlds. Yes? Yes, I'll add it to the order. I don't think you'd appreciate this next one, it's written by Calladora Yaxley. Your escapade at the Ministry cost her husband dearly, and with that family you know it'll be full of petty diatribes…"

McGonagall wasn't quite sure what to say. Of all the things she might have seen, Mr. Malfoy holding Hermione's hand tenderly in his own while speaking to her unconscious form about a mail order of history books was the most incomprehensible. The way he spoke, his voice low and tone soothing; the way he held her hand in his, as though it was the most precious gift he had ever received; the way he determined her likes and dislikes in conversation with someone just a year ago he had so much outward contempt for the existence of. Remaining grounded, despite her desire to walk back to her office and consult St. Mungo's, she noted the pop that signalled the arrival of Winky. Clutching two bundles of clothes, the small elf hiccupped slightly as she walked toward them.

"Winky has brought Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy's clothes, Ma'am. Winky will _hiccup_ bring breakfasts for them now?"

With a polite nod of affirmation, and another crack, the Headmistress was once again left alone with the unlikely trio. The little elf seemed better than last year, at least, when Professor Snape had been forced to brew not insignificant quantities of modified Pepperup Potion to mollify the effects of butterbeer consumption. _Last year had been enough to turn anyone to drink._

"Mr. Potter, Mr. Malfoy. I'm told that you haven't left the Hospital Wing since Friday evening." When neither wizard responded, she continued regardless, "Classes began an hour ago, and both of you are missing your Charms class as we speak. I am confident that the two of you will speak to your professors and complete all of the work missed no later than Sunday evening. I must, however, insist that you both take care of your personal hygiene if you are to be permitted to remain on the ward. Winky has brought you a set of fresh clothes, and will take those you are wearing now to be laundered." She sniffed, lips crinkling as though clutching a particularly sour lemon, "Extensively laundered."

Harry was paying attention, thankful for the acceptance that they would not be returning to classes while Hermione remained hospitalised. As he reached forward to take the clothes, however, he caught sight of Malfoy. He hadn't moved, nor acknowledged what was a reasonable instruction for the chance to stay.

"I can't let go. I promised."

Harry recalled his altercation with Ron, the way the boy had rounded on him for leaving Hermione in the care of Draco Malfoy. It occurred to him, not for the first time, that the only person who seemed to be rescuing her this year was indeed the former Death Eater who was now cradling her hand in both of his. There wasn't a hint of treachery or cunning manipulation. Every movement, everything the man had done since Friday night, and if Harry were being honest, even before then, had held a purity he had never associated as a possibility for Malfoy. He had hoped that no harm would ever befall his closest friend, the girl who had taken care of him for the best part of a decade, but had always assumed that should anything happen it would be himself and Ron there. Yet even when he had gone to Ron, he hadn't done so with the thought of replacing Malfoy. More like reinforcing her against his own failures to protect her adequately. He looked up at McGonagall, and noted her pursed lips and tightly knotted forehead. Never a good sign.

"Professor, he means it. He hasn't let go of her for even a second in all this time. I… I did, and he hasn't."

The Headmistress regarded him carefully, before turning to look at the curiosity that sat before her, "I believe a house elf will be able to clean and dress you without letting her go, Mr. Malfoy. I understand that Madam Pomfrey will be attempting to rouse Miss Granger soon, so as we can better assess the extent of her remaining injuries. I hear you have been able to access other necessities during your stay here, and trust you will continue to do so responsibly. I do not wish to be notified of any further concerns driven by your presence on this ward."

Madam Pomfrey only arrived once Harry had returned from having changed his clothes and cast the strongest possible cleansing charms on himself. His back ached, sore from sitting still for so long, but he rushed back nevertheless. The mediwitch eyed him carefully, scrutinising him for any lapse in his hygiene that would allow her to expel him, but apparently found none. The offensive Quidditch uniform had been removed, and Malfoy now sat in a fresh pair of slacks and a stiffly starched button-down that presumably were his more casual wardrobe.

Hermione's reawakening was a peaceful affair, and while she was not completely cognisant of those around her, it allowed Madam Pomfrey to conduct a host of tests and charms that had yielded no result during her sedation. Her ribs had healed, as had most of the deeper cuts. There would be bruising, ample disorientation, and there were words spoken about malnutrition and dehydration, but she would survive. Draco immediately felt both reassuringly heartened at her condition, but also the underlying strum of the inevitable pain that would come from her pushing him away once she recalled the basis on which she had been hurt. Determined to make every second count, he leant forward onto her bed such that she could cuddle into his shoulder slightly. Her head was surprisingly light, given the volume of her most vital organ, and he enjoyed the light fan of beautiful curls he could see from her new position. Harry was no less keen to retain hold of her hand, pangs of guilt resurfacing, and shifted closer too. As the witch drifted off back to sleep, and a late breakfast arrived for the two young men, Draco finally worked up the courage to speak again.

"Professor McGonagall? Before you go, may I ask you to send something to Tomes and Scrolls? It's for Hermione."

If the Headmistress was surprised at the boy's willingness to address the girl on a first name basis, she didn't show it. Instead, she gently took the weighty scroll from him, and nodded. Sharing a discretely raised eyebrow with Harry, she bid them goodbye and left the infirmary.

Hermione could feel the difference in her hands. She was snuggled comfortably against a muscular, square-set shoulder, while the man's other hand was large, hardly calloused and firm in its familiar grip. _Draco, unexpected_. Her other hand sat cradled between two large, yet slimmer hands. Hands with a rougher touch and a lighter grip, fingers intertwined with hers. _Intertwined fingers, Harry_. It was his calling card, just like when they danced. She was safe. _Safe now._ Yet even as rested as she felt, with only a dull body-wide ache that throbbed with a syncopated accentuation, she did not open her eyes. _A few more minutes of being held. _Each time she promised herself one more minute, she would gift herself another just before she was supposed to wake. When she opened her eyes, she knew they would back away. The things that Draco had seen, the things she had done to his father, he knew now. If he had thought her unworthy and filthy before, he now had his dogma confirmed. So why was he here, providing a comfortable shoulder and a reassuring hand? Harry too, would surely have learnt what that Zabini animal had done. She didn't want to look at his eyes and see pity. She wasn't sure if she could handle that. It was Harry who noticed, in a feat of infuriating observance he had never previously managed, that she a little more awake than she let on as she nestled deeper into Malfoy's chest.

"'Mione? Are you awake?"

His tone nervous, as though scared for either possibility. The fear she heard was enough to overcome her own, unwilling to put Harry through any more uncertainty and distress. She gently opened her eyes, overwhelmed by the apricity of the afternoon that was flooding through the window. Selfishly, she didn't remove herself from Draco, nor take back her hands. While she knew it would hurt more when he pulled away, she would take every second of his comfort and presence he would allow.

'I'm awake,' she murmured, and tensed, waiting for them to pull away. Neither did, instead, their words came thick and fast, almost too much for her to follow in her still sleep and potion addled state.

"I apologise Granger. I was late to the library, I'm sorry. I know that is likely not enough, but I mean it. I know you might want me to leave, and I understand, but…"

"You think this is because you were late to the library? You rescued her, while I spent all of that time playing Quidditch! If anyone failed her, it was me. Again. I'm so, so sorry 'Mione. I'll never leave you again. Whatever you need, just don't make me lose you. Please…"

"You don't understand Potter; this is my family's fault. Again. I'm truly sorry, Granger. We already owe you such debts, it's impossible to repay you."

Hermione sat, still pressed against Draco's shoulder, surprised at their reactions. This was not as she had anticipated. Surreal, almost, and she struggled to counter them and capture her own apologies and regrets. Had Draco forgotten that he'd walked in on Zabini doing such a depraved act? That he'd seen her nude, and ruined his robe on her? That he'd seen her covered in mess? What did Quidditch have to do with it? Or being late? Zabini was following her, and she couldn't be accompanied every hour of the day, and she wouldn't want to be either.

"What? You saw me, every inch the dirty Mudblood."

"Please don't ever call yourself that, either of those things. Don't you see how regretful that was to begin with? You weren't dirty, you never have been, you were hurt. Hurt because of my family, again."

"I hurt your family."

"No. You saved us. Do you remember what I did? When I found you?" He felt her nod, and continued, "I'm safe now. Thanks to you. Another life debt I owe you."

"I didn't think you'd want to be anywhere near me again?" She shrunk in on herself, vulnerable and open, and gasped aloud as he tightened his grip on her hand. "You saw me… saw me like that. Without… without robes."

"I saw that someone hurt you badly, that's all, and I wish it hadn't been necessary. You have nothing to be ashamed of. You didn't even let him see you cry, for Merlin's sake. I'm staying. Please don't try and replace the robe, it's not ruined at all, and I'd like you to keep it. It's warm. Potter, Quidditch isn't why she got hurt. She got hurt because Zabini is a madman and wanted her blood."

Draco settled her into his shoulder properly, and just about stopped himself from kissing her brow again, as she had done on Friday. He was beginning to piece together a few things, and cursing himself for not seeing the issue earlier. The route Zabini had taken with the mirror and the flaws that plainly didn't exist, the evident malnutrition written all over her, the humiliation about being nude. He knew. Surely Potter knew? This was not going to be allowed to continue, not under his watch. Blame it on a life debt, perhaps, but she wasn't going to hurt herself anymore. The tiny witch against his chest softened slightly, as Harry began telling her how worried he had been, as he relaxed into her presence. He wasn't going to be sent away, he still had her hand. While he knew there was still time for things to change, this was certainly a promising start.

The heavy doors to the Hospital Wing were already open, and Kingsley was somewhat disappointed by the loss of a dramatic entrance. He approached the bed, and gave Hermione a warm smile, while the Auror she recognised from his poor treatment of Zabini the very first day this had begun remained stoic. The Minister smiled respectfully at the two men who had evidently remained by her side, apparently Mr. Malfoy the younger was made of different stuff than his father.

"Hermione, I heard you were awake. How do you feel?" As she responded, he passed over a large glass vase filled with a stunning array of edelweiss in full bloom, entwined with sunshine yellow Black-Eyed Susan and a fragrant bouquet of pure white wallflowers. She hovered over the note for a moment, 'Our Hermione.'

"I'm not sure if you've been brought up to speed, but I'm personally overseeing the investigation into the attack. Mr. Malfoy here is quite the hero. I'm sorry to burden you during your recovery, but we'd like to collect a statement, and your memory of the event Hermione."

All of a sudden, she felt her body tense. She didn't want to, she couldn't, say it aloud. While she knew, and almost believed that they weren't disgusted by her, they weren't ashamed, she hardly wanted to remind them of… of everything. She didn't want to remind herself. Didn't want to push those words into the world, the acts themselves had been enough for the air to endure. She felt overcome with memory: the aching humiliation of the mirror, the rote learning of every fault he could identify, the 'drink' he had provided, and then… then the touching. It was too much. Just like she'd felt before, when she panicked, wanting to hurt herself. Except she was already hurt, and there was nothing more to be done. She couldn't harm herself as a distraction, he'd taken that away from her. Spiralling now, she choked on the theft of control, her freefall swift and dangerous. Draco shifted his weight onto the bed beside her, and tucked a tender arm around her. It was soothing, like an anchor in the rough, and after several slow breaths, she spoke.

"I… I can't. I don't want to. Can you just take the memory?"

Auror Williamson withdrew a thin glass vial, with a golden stopper, and presented it to her. Apparently, this had been expected, as no quarrel was forthcoming. Taking her wand from Harry, she felt the tears slip down her face as she brought the events of Friday night to the forefront of her mind and withdrew it with the tip of her wand. Silver and spectral, the ethereal thread fell neatly into the vial, which was promptly stoppered. Never had something so cruel looked so pure, though perhaps that was precisely the issue. _It's all too easy to fight an enemy with a tattoo marking them out as such. Appearing as an innocent is where the danger lies. Just like Zabini._

"Mr. Zabini remains in our custody. He will do so until the trial. I'll be in touch about that, and to confirm the charges once we've reviewed all of the evidence. I assure you, all of you, that he will be punished for his misdeeds. I will see to it personally. In the meantime, there is one other matter to discuss. Auror Williamson here, is to become your personal protection officer." Sensing a raised eyebrow and potential argument, he hastened to continue, "He won't be following you around, but he will be monitoring threats against you, and will accompany you at a discrete distance when you leave the bounds of the castle. I understand that this particular threat came from within, but if you share with him events that make you suspicious, we can act to prevent things escalating. I must ask that you do not attempt to escape his attention, he is here to keep you safe. He will not limit your activities, merely protect you during them. Given two of you spend your time together for the most part, it is a significant assignment, so please do not make it more difficult than it needs to be. He knows about the invisibility cloak, just so you're aware."

Auror Williamson seemed less than amused with the assertion that a teenage girl could overcome his training, but didn't voice his irritation. It was noticed, however, and Kingsley desperately wanted to ask them not to see his response as a challenge to undermine him; but knew this would only insult the Auror more. He would have to learn the hard way, Kingsley supposed, that Hermione and Harry were not an easy combination. At the very least, he would be kept busy, and perhaps the arrogance would slip a little.

"Well, Madam Senior Undersecretary to the Minister of Magic, Order of Merlin First Class, Warlock Hermione Granger, you certainly gave us all a fright. It's only natural you are afforded security, I'd hate to lose you… the Ministry, of course, I mean. Try not to give Auror Williamson too hard a time."

With a wink at Hermione, the Minister strode out of the Hospital Wing, leaving her to explain that particular title to the two men sitting either side of her. After contemplating feigning sleep, she felt a soft vibration behind her, and realised that Draco was laughing. Harry was wide eyed, mouth agape, and apparently unable to form the questions he wanted to ask.

"Merlin Granger, must you always overachieve?"

Harry began to laugh: at the situation, but also as a thrilling respite from the desperate concern and fear that the last few days had brought. It was as though every giggle from Hermione, the baritone laughter from Malfoy and his own head tipped back, gregarious mirth burnt a little more of the anxiety away. While there was a lot to fix; a lot of things only time would heal; and an acknowledgement that a lot had changed, perhaps forever, on Friday night, there was also the promise of tomorrow. She was well, all would be well.

"I've been here for three days. What else have I missed?"

"You missed Neville; he's popped in every day so far. You missed Kingsley sneaking in twice before today, you've made quite the impression on him. Though now I can see why! Luna stopped by to clear the area of Wrackspurts. There is the matter of the large pile of gifts at the foot of your bed, including some chocolates from Cormac that I'm going to feed back to him. I'll ask Slughorn to check what exactly is in them first, but I'm guessing a lust potion. You missed us getting told we stink by McGonagall and forced to change…"

"I'd like to point out it wasn't me with the hygiene issue. Potter here ditched his Quidditch kit under your bed. The horrors I have had to put up with…" his expression every inch the slighted aristocrat, before breaking out in a trademark smirk.

"…You missed Malfoy refusing to let go of your hand and being dressed by a House Elf. It was very gallant. I will be embarrassing him about it between the three of us regularly."

Hermione tried to giggle, but found her ribs hurt. Draco rubbed her back softly to ease the sting, as she lay against his chest. It was impossible to miss the easy relationship the two men had adopted while at her bedside, and she was immensely grateful for their effort. There was one name missing, however, and the mention of his name caused Harry to recoil slightly.

"He knows you're here. I went to find him, I'm sorry for leaving you… I just, I felt he'd be useful. It wasn't my best idea." She looked at him, face earnest and all too aware that there was more to explain. "He seems to think, well, that you rejecting him as a romantic interest has disappointed his family. So I'd love to hear what they think of me! But yeah, typical Ron, and we're not going back there. Either of us. They're not my family, you are 'Mione. I knew that the moment he left us last year. He's not like us, never has been and never will be."

Hermione's eyes welled up with tears, despite the ringing truthful clarity of his words. She knew. It hurt, but she knew. She recalled one of her mum's sayings, something of seasonal people and lifetime expectations. She could find relief there, the years of happy memories, moments she would never forget and think of often. She could treasure the scars on her tongue, from years of biting back angry words, for they had allowed such joy and experience and love that she otherwise would not have known in quite the same way. And now, resting on Draco's chest and Harry holding her hand, she felt part of a family. A real family, where she could love and be loved, freely. Without expectation. It was between the two of them that sleep overtook her, Draco pulling her into his chest and Harry on his chair with his fingers laced between hers once more.


	24. Dinner

Dinner

A/N: This chapter features a conversation around ED topics between two characters. It may be uncomfortable or triggering for some readers. I have marked this section out with asterisks such that you can avoid this dialogue. It is a realistic interpretation of one person's mental health issues – not meant to represent those of everyone.

Hermione's sleep was far from restful, to the extent that in the early hours of the morning, Harry had been forced to prevent Madam Pomfrey from administering a vial of Dreamless Sleep. Hermione had experimented with the potion, of course, after the war. Not only had it failed to properly obscure the haunting plague of her memories, but it had proven singularly addictive. The dosage requirements increased rapidly to garner any effect, and she had elected to cease using it before she became dependent. The dreams were different now. _Fitful reminders of her own screams, extracted at knife point by the looming evil of Bellatrix Lestrange. The foul condemnation of her deepest insecurities by Zabini, his cold rage reflected back at her a million times by the mirror. The pain and shock of his filthy penetration. The acrid stream of liquid hitting her face… It was too much._

It was the second time Draco had been present while she slept without sedation, and while he simply held her closer to him, opting to softly rub her head and back to soothe her through the worst of her thoughts, the night delivered him a heady shame. From her murmured words, he knew that a not insignificant number of her nightmares were due to her torture at Malfoy Manor. Their shared reminiscence of the evening had him breaking out in chills. It had been the worst day of many bad ones. Her agony would haunt him forever, he knew that as soon as he had heard her there. He had heard others, of course, seen others; but none had touched him quite as much as her. The way his Aunt had been so flippantly willing to hand her to Greyback and his associates, to be brutalised before what he knew would be a protracted death. It had sickened him then, and it sickened him now. _Always the outlier, always the problem: the dirtiest blood with the brightest mind, the stolen magic with the strongest power._ She was the most problematic of the Dark Lord's enemies, an uncomfortable reality that all had become dangerously aware of.

He was grateful when Harry cast a muffling charm around them, such that only the three of them would hear her terrors. While he knew that Hermione would hate for others to be disturbed, or to know of her weaknesses, a somewhat more venal part of him did not want others to be reminded of the ample pain he and his family had delivered her. It was testing enough for him to have that reality thrust in his face, without others shooting more daggers at him in the corridors. In the end, it was Harry shifting onto the bed beside them and settling her between them that seemed to relax her into a peaceful sleep. The bed was awkwardly tight for the two men, and they had never anticipated sharing such a degree of intimacy, but both were too tired and too grateful for the end of her nightmares to squabble.

Finally, after Draco awkwardly retreated back to the chair beside her before Harry woke and remembered their entwined sleeping position, came the day she would be discharged to her rooms. She was by no means recovered, but there was little that could be done other than the self-administration of potions and the passage of time. It was the late afternoon by the time the matron was satisfied that she would be well-catered for, repeating her instructions for dressings, salves and medicine multiple times to Hermione and then the two men who would take care of her. Finally, Neville arrived and put a stop to the woman's fifth lecture on the importance of eating a balanced diet alongside the potions she had been supplied with. They walked slowly back to her rooms once the period had begun, to avoid any errant students asking problematic questions or disturbing their slow path home.

Draco guided her toward her bedroom as Harry left to retrieve the many gifts that her well-wishers had sent to the Hospital Wing. Once there, the conversation turned more serious between the two left behind. They sat in the window seat, overlooking the grounds that lay bewitched by the soundless snowfall. He sensed her comfort, and could perfectly imagine her reading in this very spot. He could watch her every reaction, while she had the liberty to gaze out of the window to relieve the pressure. It was the greatest form of freedom he could provide her. It was a safe place, and that was precisely what they needed.

*"I need to tell you an uncomfortable truth. A truth that will turn your own beliefs on their head. Uncomfortable truths are more valuable than beautiful lies, and I'm taking it as my duty to deliver this."

She was looking at him, eyes wide and darkened in anticipation of rejection. He knew where she imagined this to go, he knew because it was the same fear he held. The fear of the other walking away.

"Everything Zabini said to you was a lie. I have known him for many years, and he has always been able to precisely target the most fragile vulnerabilities of those he has abused. He has hurt many women, girls really, and derived much enjoyment from it. I knew, I listened, I occasionally even saw the state he left them in afterwards. I didn't do anything, I sometimes helped cover it up. Though I didn't agree or partake, I didn't care either. Not about them. I am not a good man, nor a brave man. You know that. You have witnessed that, and suffered for it. I will never be those things. I can, however, be honest with you. I have seen you, just as he has. I saw what he said to you, about yourself, when I removed the memory. I can tell you that what he said isn't true."

Her eyes were fixed far in the horizon now. Unable and unwilling to look at him, her shoulders tense and jawline clenched. This was not the conversation she had anticipated and dreaded, but she determined it was potentially worse.

"Never, in all of the years I taunted and bullied you, did I ever insult your body. That's not because I'm a gentleman. I certainly would have used it had I been able to. I didn't say anything because there wasn't anything to insult: you have always been petite and slim. I know my family's pigs far better than he does. You are nothing of the sort, and never will be. You never have been. The problem is not eating too much. The problem is you don't eat. The only part of his vile tirade that would hold up to any scrutiny is about your ribcage, not because you have large ribs, but rather they are prominent because you are starving. Starving yourself."

Hermione had shifted her knees up against her chest, as though they were a shield, but he knew she was listening by the single tear that threatened an invasion of them. He continued, painful as he knew her sadness would be.

"It didn't take seeing you there to know that. You are smaller than you were the moment I first saw you. Taller, yes, but your cheekbones and your neck, and your ribs and legs. The way you are always cold, shivering even by the fire. You are smaller than you were even under the threat of death, on the run. When I saw you at the Manor, I thought you were dying. Yet here you are, even more thin. The only way in which you are anything less than beautiful is in your malnutrition. I know Madam Pomfrey has given you nutrition potions, I know you won't take them. I also know that the answer isn't potions. It's learning to eat again."

"I know how to eat."

"You know how not to eat better. You know how to employ control, when the rest of your world seems out of kilter. If you let the other skill fall behind, you will miss out on the world you won for yourself. I want you to eat. I need you to eat. We all need you, as selfish as it is. I find sitting in the library with you more amenable than the Hospital Wing, or worse. This is the greatest challenge of that control. Releasing one form for the other, like your conjured birds."

"My birds?"

"The ones you set on Weasel a few years ago. When you alter your spellwork to have them attack your target, you release your concentration from the original charm to issue a different command, the command to attack. You shift the type of control, and that takes a lot of faith. And power. Mine disappear. Not that I steal your spells, of course."

"Of course," she smiled softly for the first time.*

The door open just a smidge, Neville could hear a hint of the words being spoken, and had to concede that he was impressed. While he had wanted to talk to Hermione for some time about this, about everything, it had always seemed a conversation that was unlikely to be quite as affable and well-received as it apparently was when led by Draco Malfoy. He was surprised, and more than a little intrigued, as to how he had managed to engage her with such sensitivity. _Malfoy was an unexpected revelation this year._ As Harry returned to the Common Room armed with a vast pile of gifts, Neville beckoned him over so as not to interrupt the conversation between the pair in the bedroom.

As the conversation in the bedroom tapered off, the two patiently waiting men noted a shift in the sweetly scented cherry wood logs in the fireplace. Another crackle of bright green sparks later, and both men stepped toward the grate with their wands raised. As the glowing sparks settled into the embers, a man's head appeared. He had chiselled cheekbones made more masculine by a broad Grecian nose. As the logs settled, Harry was finally able to identify the man by his thick cordovan hair, lightly quiffed. If the caller was at all alarmed by two wands being pointed at him, he didn't show it.

"Mr. Potter, and Mr. Longbottom, I believe? Good evening," came the smooth lilt of an upper-class Munster accent.

"Rosier. What are you doing here?" Neither man lowered their wand, yet the subject didn't flinch.

"I'd like an audience with Ms. Granger, I believe this is her closest fireplace. Would she be available for a brief discussion?"

Before Harry was able to dismiss the man, Hermione and Draco emerged into full view of their newly arrived guest. Rosier's eyes ran over the two newcomers, but his expression remained impassive except to greet them. Harry's wand only lowered after Hermione shot him a brief reassuring look, with Neville's arm following suit. Draco guided Hermione to sit comfortably on the rug in front of the fire, before taking a seat just a few metres away in the armchair. He clutched his wand, ensuring a clean strike should Rosier shift toward attempting entrance to the room. Neville replicated his position, on the other side of the room by the desk. Aware that she was safe, and furious that the man had dared to garner her attention, Harry retreated to their bedroom such that he wouldn't explode with anger.

"Mr. Rosier, good evening. What is so pressing it brings you to fire call?"

"I hope you are well, Miss Granger, there are some rumours that you had suffered an accident making the rounds of St. Mungo's today. I see that you are not hospitalised, thankfully." When she made no move to comment, recognising his desire to dig for information, he continued, "I'll be pleased to pass on that you are quite well to some of your concerned colleagues. Everyone was rather taken with you at the Wizengamot last month, news of your ill health was concerning."

The man was certainly well-informed, to know that she had been offered a seat within the court. That news had so far evaded even The Daily Prophet. She doubted, however, that any sitting Warlock had opted to determine the state of her condition via a defence advocate that had so little to do with her. _No, he hadn't gotten to the point yet_. He was charming, as he had been all that time ago, though his lack of height removed some of the finessed magnetism he had so ably commanded at the trial.

"Ah, I hadn't meant to worry anyone. Perhaps an update on my health would be better coming from me, you have such a lot on your plate. Who should I be owling?"

Draco piqued an eyebrow at that, impressed with how diplomatically she had ensnared him in his own invention. Every interaction he had the fortune to enjoy with the little witch revealed to him just how crucial she would have been by Potter's side. He reflected on how her value had been comprehended within Death Eater circles; they had certainly recognised her intelligence, her emotional value as Harry Potter's closest confidante, and depth of her magic. Yet none had ever really considered her strategic ability, her guile: they had missed perhaps her greatest asset, the one that set her closest to them. Her ability to hide her cunning, he supposed, made it all the more valuable. _It really raised the question of what the purpose of Weasley was._

"I'm glad you raised my schedule actually, there is certainly a lot on my plate at the moment, I can't deny it: one would imagine by now we would have returned to more standard judicial procedures. Instead, I find my firm overloaded with cases. I wanted to speak to you to determine whether you would be interested in opening a dialogue with a view to joining my legal practice."

Neville snapped his head around to meet Draco's eyes, both were more than aware that Rosier hired exclusively from the Pureblood population. For as long as anyone could remember, the legal firm had hired only from Flint and Greengrass stock. The hiring of a Muggleborn, even – or perhaps especially – one of such eminence as Hermione would be a scandal.

"I must confess to being just as enamoured by your performance in the Wizengamot as the Warlocks were. You were remarkably well-informed on an area of law even I am yet to stumble across, and more eloquent under pressure than I had imagined you to be. Given that you are to be involved in the legal world, you evidently have more than a casual interest, and I am best placed to hone that. You would be highly sought after. I believe my client remarked that you would have been a better hire than myself, when we consulted afterwards."

Draco swallowed a snort. His father's words were being wilfully misrepresented, of that he had no doubt. The greatest insult he could serve to Rosier was likely that a schoolgirl of Muggle heritage would have outperformed him had she been on his defence team. He was equally sure that his father had not phrased it quite so politely. While he was staunchly aware he wanted nothing to do with his father, he rather wished he had been a fly on the wall during that particular debrief.

"I understand it may seem overzealous to call you, but it may have an impact on some of our firm's more immediate choices in the run up to you beginning at the practice. We have historically been the most well-respected advocacy firm in Europe, with a highly select group of clients."

"Select? Yet you represented Lucius Malfoy?"

Rosier's eyes sought out Draco, but could only find the threat of his shadow. He otherwise ignored the barb, and continued, "The Malfoy family have been represented by ourselves for generations. I am somewhat unique in my belief, within the wizarding community at least, that every accused individual ought to have access to a fair and free trial. No matter the crime they stand suspected of. While I cannot supply for all, we represent a first step to what is a lofty goal. Along with a distaste for access to representation, the field has long been dominated by discriminatory hiring." Her interest was piqued, he could see it. The information he had gathered had been valuable indeed, "It is true to say that if you sought to practice on your own, you would go without work. Until the system recognises a more meritocratic approach, working within a firm such as ourselves would be a unique first step. The world will not change freely."

"Indeed. While I am grateful for your kind offer, I have been offered a position in another field. A position I have happily accepted."

His brow furled faintly, clearly curious about where she would be working come the summer. There was, then, something the man didn't know. He did not seek to pry, understanding that she would not expand upon the answer she had already given, and for that she was grateful. She was feeling her fatigue now, the aches beginning to pound with a greater ferocity.

"I will accept your answer for now, Miss Granger, though I trust that should you change your mind about post-graduate employment, you will seek our firm out as your first choice. You would be quite the prize for us. I must admit to being rather captivated with your showing in the courtroom, and I would like to learn more of you: you come with an impressively formidable reputation. If I would commit to not pursuing your entry into my firm over dessert, would you be willing to accompany me to dinner? I believe you have a Hogsmede weekend before Christmas."

Hermione was struck by the surety of the man: he was certainly informed about the goings on at Hogwarts, and a well-practiced smooth talker. _To be expected from a lawyer_. She recalled the poise with which he had dominated the Wizengamot, with the emotional intelligence that allowed him to capture their belief in her for his gain. In another time, he would surely have been remarkably similar to the man he had represented that day. While Lucius Malfoy was undoubtedly malevolent and censorious, he was certainly a silver-tongued politician and accomplished Svengali. Much like Rosier. Not a man to be trifled with.

Draco tensed in the armchair, just out of sight of the fire. Under no circumstances would Cepheus Rosier be taking Hermione out to dinner while he still walked the Earth. He reassured himself that it was for her own safety: Rosier was a tricky individual, a declared force of neutrality barely bothering to obscure murky links with the Dark Lord. His own brother had been in the inner-circle, even preferable to the Malfoy family during the final year of war. Cold too, from what Draco had seen of his father's representative: unscrupulous, and enough of an opportunist to recognise that his brother's death during the final battle was a blessing for his own future, able to go on to viably represent only those with the purest of blood without question. An excellent advocate, then, but unequivocally incompatible with Hermione. _She's a witch, not a 'prize.' _To a man as repugnant as Rosier, however, courting the most respected war heroine would certainly be a form of whitewash even superior to his absence of any mourning of his own brother's death. _Bastard_.

"I'll think about it. Thank you for your good wishes, Mr. Rosier, have a pleasant evening."

Draco's eyes widened at that. He had never imagined she would consider going to dinner with him, a man who represented all she had rallied against for so long, successfully. A man whose firm had always declined to represent anyone outside of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, and even then, was selective: there had never been a Weasley welcomed into his office. If it hadn't been for the evident threat the man posed to her, that any man posed to her, he would almost like to have seen them converse. _Rosier would come out in pox if she brought up the house elf thing._ Regardless of how amusingly heated their conversation would be, he knew he would have to prevent her accepting his offer. His father had been furious with how things had gone during his trial, and Rosier had been displeased with the threat of his fee being lost. He certainly didn't take kindly to being humiliated, and she had bested him. It would not do to open her up to his revenge. Yet he would no doubt see her in court again, when Zabini was charged. _She doesn't know. Shit. She doesn't know that Rosier is representing Zabini._

Distant wafts of soft jasmine soap atop the thrumming flow of running water forced Draco out of his thoughts, his eyes taking in the little witch who remained on the rug beside the hearth. Her eyes were rimmed in tiredness, as he crouched to help her up. She was clearly sore, face contorted in her discomfort as he supported her to stand. He helped her toward her rooms, noting a pair of soft pyjamas waiting for her on the bed, but continued past them to the bathroom. Kneeling on the floor, Harry was testing the temperature with his wrist pressed through the ample bubbles. Pausing for a moment in the door frame, wanting just a little longer with her, Draco wrapped her against his chest. She didn't resist, and he could feel her soft breaths on his abdomen. She looked exhausted, and for the first time in several nights, he wouldn't be there to oversee her sleep. He didn't feel so needed anymore, almost as if he was encroaching on Potter's territory by being in her rooms. Maybe this would be the last time he would hold her hand, hold her: a more convenient end. He found her hands, and pulled them toward his chest. _If this was the last time she'd be so close, he would damn well make the most of it._ Just as they had been all that time ago, on the Quidditch pitch. As she moved her fingers lightly, he felt the same warmth, companionship and burning need for her nearness as he had under the stars. The dance returned.

"'Mione, your bath is ready. I'll help you with the dressings."

He held her closer, cursing Potter not for the first time, even if the bath would soothe her aches more than he could. He felt her head shift upward, her eyes on him.

"Malfoy? Will you come back? In the morning?"

With a relieved nod, he cast a discrete cooling charm on the water to quell the rising steam spirals of stifling heat that Potter clearly intended to put her in, and took his leave. _Not the last time_.


	25. Scream

Scream

Draco had indeed returned the next morning, as early as he dared, armed with a jar of the blackberry jam he knew she enjoyed and a loaf of brioche toast. While the house elves would certainly have transported the meal with greater ease, there was perhaps a certain joy he had discovered in delivering it himself. Not that Draco Malfoy would ever give any verbal assent to the Muggle way of doing things. Even more so when he got to enjoy sitting with a slightly mussed Hermione Granger over breakfast while the others showered. It quickly developed into a routine, and he enjoyed a particularly pleasant morning smearing jam across her cheek while Potter owled Rosier her rejection. Before all-out war broke out, he guided her to the privacy of her bedroom and returned to the window seat. She flinched slightly, recalling their last conversation, but he determined to continue while Potter was out. He brought out a scroll of parchment, and unfurled it for her under the low winter light.

Her mouth opened slightly, as her eyes roamed the parchment. He had used pencils, not a quill, that was obvious. She hadn't even known they were sold in the wizarding world. The directional strokes captured every inch perfectly: dimensions precise and with a degree of clarity she could never achieve, flow and purpose annotations succinct and clear, but most elegant of all was the placement of furniture, the planning of colour and the proposal of texture. His sketch spoke where her words had been unable to explain, and it was more than she had ever considered possible. Any soreness from his ribbing of her lacking artistic talent evaporated. Soft murmurs of her approval emerged; such was her surprise at what he had achieved. Potter Cottage was flawless.

"Over Christmas, if you like, we could go to London and purchase the furnishings."

He had even offered to accompany her; she could not deny she was impressed. She could imagine the amount of time that had been poured into this, not a detail missed. She nodded, hardly daring to look away from his art. He leaned forward, just centimetres from her face. The way her breath hitched slightly, how she rolled her bottom lip against her teeth, the light blush that caressed her cheekbones: she was effortlessly beautiful. Her eyes didn't flicker closed, not in the way that he so dearly wanted, and some of his daring abandoned him. Instead, he brought his hand up to her jawline and brushed his thumb along the trail of blackberry that graced her cheek. Never breaking eye contact, he brought the jam to his mouth and suckled it off. It tasted saccharine, with an underlying tartness. She tasted of brewing addiction, jasmine and something that was impossible to place. She giggled, and he brought her into his arms for a few minutes before ushering her toward the bathroom so they could spend the morning in the library.

The week had passed quickly, and eventually she was allowed to return to classes the next Monday. He saw her as soon as she entered the Great Hall, from his position of relative isolation on the edge of the house table he had once dominated. She sat with Harry, surrounded by their friends, and the tenseness of her soft smile was enough to make him wish they were back in her rooms eating peacefully. To her credit, however, she caught his eye as she brought a spoon of granola to her mouth. She was trying, and for that he was thankful. It was at that moment an owl swooped down, a grey tawny owl with a large wooden box attached to its talons. A box that was surprisingly familiar.

Within a second, he had risen from the bench and began sprinting over toward the Gryffindor table. Not daring to pause for even a single breath, his mind focused singularly on intercepting the owl before it reached her. His fraught movement held the attention of all those he passed, curious to see what had inspired such urgency in him. He didn't care, he had to stop her from getting the box. The owl landed in front of her just as he passed the Hufflepuff bench, and his eyes widened as she reached out and took the parcel from the bird. He launched himself toward her, beyond caring at the inevitable stain of breakfast that gripped his robes as he landed on the table and snatched it away.

"Give it back Malfoy! Now!"

As Draco leaned back clutching the box, Harry had stood up to attempt to seize back his friend's post. His tone was viciously angry, and his voice loud. Anyone who had miraculously not seen his dive across the Gryffindor table had certainly turned to look now. The students had been spoiling for a conflict all year, and now it seemed so eagerly delivered to them. When he received no response, Harry made to grab the Slytherin from across the table and force the box from his hands, but was easily dodged.

"Return her property, Malfoy."

Ignoring him once again, Draco turned to Hermione who looked wholly confused at what was happening. She still held the attached letter that had fallen off the wooden box as he made his grab, but had not yet opened the envelope, "Granger, did you touch the box? With your bare hands?"

His eyes were cloudy, his expression tense in a way she hadn't seen for some time. _Something was wrong, very wrong_. She felt an undercurrent of frustration at her lack of understanding, but there was something about him, something in his eyes that inspired her trust. She nodded, her eyes round and honeyed with concern as she took in how serious this, _whatever this was_, seemed to be. She could feel Harry's rage boiling next to her, a full cauldron ready to erupt. She placed a gentle hand on his wrist to calm him.

"You can't open this. You shouldn't have touched it at all."

"Don't tell her how to handle herself, Malfoy!"

"It's not hers. It belongs to my father. Do you think he's sending her an early Christmas gift Potter?"

Harry froze, settled slightly, but his deep breaths demonstrated the persistence of his fury. _Everything related to the Malfoys seemed impossibly problematic._ As the two men continued to angrily glare at one another, unaware of the audience of students and staff alike, Hermione turned her attention to the note. Casting a revealing charm over the envelope, showing nothing untoward within, she opened it tentatively.

"It's from Rosier. It's on his firm's letterhead. It just says… a token of my affections?"

"Granger, I'm keeping this and working out what he's sent. It isn't worth the risk."

She nodded, and he felt the warmth of her faith wash over him. Quite frankly, Draco didn't care a jot whether Potter was riled or not. He took far too many liberties with Granger's safety for his own liking, so to be angry at another who actually sought to protect her properly seemed bordering on malevolent. Pushing the box into his satchel, careful to ensure it was packed tightly and could not possibly open, its presence hampered his mind as he got through his classes. He needed time. Time to see if his fears were reasonable. It was only after Arithmancy that he managed to steal off away to find out. Ordinarily, he had taken to walking her to her rooms after class, but Harry had been waiting impatiently outside the classroom for her. _That would be a one-time thing._ He would not look a gift horse in the mouth, however, and strode confidently toward the disused room several doors away. Unlocking the door, ignoring the suspicious frown from Beaumont Marjoribanks' portrait, the classroom had not changed. It was as though the dust had barely felt the gust of battle, thick as it lay. Books, chairs, desks and several boxes cluttered the flagstones precisely as he remembered. No one else was there, no one else had been there for some time it seemed. Cautiously, he locked the door from the inside and weaved a complex web of silencing and muffling charms. He had never determined how to add or change wards to Hogwarts, and there was no time to begin meddling now. Only when he was sure that no noise would escape the room did he set his satchel down and retrieve the box.

The box was familiar to him because he had seen it tucked into the corner of his father's shelves, the same shelves he had stared at through tears as he was punished each summer for his failure to outperform his peers at Hogwarts. Its position in his life only made him more confident that his father had put the item to its full use. Dark artefacts had never lured him in the way they had done to so many members of his family. When he considered the infuriation the Vanishing Cabinet had caused him two years ago, it was clear he had never held a natural aptitude for bringing them under his will, though he had learnt much. He preferred the soft allure of a delicately crafted potion, something his father had never held much stock in. Potions were the subtle, supreme art of subduing an enemy without the chaotic din of fighting.

Historic objects that had been tampered with were a different creature: prone to instability in a way that didn't have the inherent arithmancic properties to be predictable in their volatility. They were dangerous, though he supposed that was the point. This box was no different. It was an elegantly carved piece of mahogany, still richly shining from its beeswax polish. Opulently engraved with a rounded lip, lightly decorated with oleaceae leaf carvings denoting it to have originated within his own family. Once upon a time, it would have been a beautiful music box, fit to adorn the dressing table of a young girl. It would have spun delicate tunes when opened, mechanically twirling the figure that surely lay within. Evidently, his father had no cause for a little girl's music box in his office, unless it was a trophy and his father's deep-seated immorality ran icier than anyone had yet discovered. No, if his father had taken such great care of this object, it was not due to historic fascination. It was about power. Power he would only discover if he opened the box. His wand firmly in hand, he took a deep breath before flicking open the bronze clasp. As soon as he did so, there was no doubt there was dark magic within. It crept through the air, as it always did, like a cold hand embroiled in an invisible caress touching every inch of him with its black tendrils. His stomach seized. Fear. He gripped his wand tighter, and nudged the box open.

_Screaming. Another unforgivable, and yet more agonising screaming. The questions set aside as a formality._ The screams. Her screams. He wretched, and felt the bile from his stomach flood through his mouth and hit the floor. _The crashing noise of the chandelier. The silence that accompanied the aftermath._ He pushed his hand over his eyes, just as he had done that day when the glass had embedded itself in her skin so completely. Pulling into the cuts the blade of his deranged aunt's knife had already sliced into her. _The scratch of metal on skin, cackling laughter. Mudblood. Mudblood. Filthy Mudblood. Teeth sinking through skin into bone. _The scar she was so ashamed of, the scar that marked her victory, had him doubled over to the floor as the taunts continued. _The werewolf entered, hard footsteps on the wooden boards. The tearing and removal of her clothes. Are you a virgin? I do love blood. Cold mirth from Lucius Malfoy. _Wretching again, a stream of vomit coming from his mouth, back to being the boy who could find no escape from seeing his classmate defiled. _Screams as more footsteps came forward. _No. No. They arrived. That elf arrived by now, they escaped. What was happening? Then just as he moved his wand hand upward to shut the cursed box, desperate to curl up in a ball and sob, the box continued. _Keep me open. I can show you the answers, I can show you what happens next. Hermione whimpering and moaning at the sound of harsh slaps and touch._ _Draco, is she really untouched? His father's fascinated voice. _No. _It's what the future held. Learn, know what was is store. _No. Enough.

He finally waved his wand to harshly shut the box and flicked the clasp back in place. He sunk to his knees properly now, uncaring of the vomit pooling into his robes as tears overtook him. Never again. It felt as if all of the concentrated rage, shame, and terror that had been struck in to him from the previous weekend had poured out of him too. She had been rescued again, rescued too late once more. That evening at the Manor had changed everything, though he doubted she knew. He had seen a lot, too much, that year. Nothing had prepared him for seeing someone who had seemed so unfathomably untouchable and untainted writhing on the floor of the drawing room he'd played in as a child. Perhaps the epiphany would have evaded him had he been excused, perhaps not. Either way, it happened. Her screams made him angry. Angrier than he'd thought possible. She, her people, they had ruled over him for his whole life at Hogwarts and yet nothing beyond the occasional academic or sporting humiliation had happened to him. He had flaunted his riches, his family name, his beliefs; and they had done nothing to harm him. One year, just one year of this open hell, and he had been reduced to a fearful wreck whose family had become akin to house elves. Even his degrading transfiguration to a ferret had not come at the end of any of their wands, but rather in the hands of one supposedly aligned with him. Their worldview had been realised, only to take everything he held dear. He resented his father, he had for a long time, but in that moment, he longed for the girl to deliver his comeuppance. Even if his own came with it.

The cruelty of his father's wand was bad enough, but now he knew the recesses of his imagination. A pensieve designed for a curious nature, perfectly moulded to his target. Hermione would, at least until last weekend, have been drawn in. Answers had always been impossible to refuse for her, though perhaps now she had too great an understanding of what happens when men are allowed their depravity. Interrupted acts should remain interrupted. There need be no answers of a parallel universe, leave that to the fools of Divination. She had touched the box, something one never ought to do with a potentially dark object. It hadn't opened then, as he'd feared, so there was some sort of imprinting charm. He was not well acquainted enough with the dark arts to determine the extent of this, but he knew who would know.

The sky was dark outside of the Headmistress' Office, as he entered. Immediately, he fell under the obsidian stare of his Godfather, who plainly understood that his was the only portrait Draco would seek out by nefarious means. The other portraits were either absent, or asleep, such was the hour and for that, he was grateful. It would not do for Professor McGonagall to learn of his midnight wanderings let alone his possession of the foulest object he had ever known. He had cleaned himself up, after spending several hours on the floor beyond caring, and was now as presentable as he could be after such an experience.

"Has your father been sending your gifts?" Snape's eyes drew over the box clutched in Draco's hands, recognising it immediately as the one that was perched on his study's shelves. He had spent many hours sharing Firewhisky in that study, it had been so difficult to mask revulsion over much of the conversation. Duty.

Draco sat at the desk, facing the portrait, "Cepheus Rosier sent this to Granger after she rejected his job offer, and his dinner invitation… it's some sort of pensieve I think. My father has adapted it, in his own way." He held the box toward the portrait, and manoeuvred it as per his Godfather's exacting instructions, even casting the specific detection spells as requested. The inspection was lengthy, and in-depth, as he had anticipated from the man. He was an expert, after all. Once his Godfather seemed satisfied, he returned to his seat and settled down to listen.

"It is an enchanted music box, masking a strong memory containment charm. You've seen it in your father's study, I'm sure. Ordinarily, these items simply render people unconscious until rescue, but this is a more serious artefact. When opened, the aural elements of the memories begin to play. A fairly strong entrancing enchantment to draw the viewer in serves to maintain interest in its contents. There is a trace of additional dark magic there too. Something tailored, designed to project a fantasy on a memory. It is complex magic, to interfere with even an echoic memory, and the spellwork certainly has the hallmarks of that your father preferred to cast. Style over efficiency. Why was this sent to her?"

"Rosier saw me with Granger, when she rejected his offer via Floo. The note that accompanied the box bore his signature."

"Cepheus Rosier is not someone to be trifled with nor trusted. He has escaped any prosecution or serious suspicion over two wars by skill, not luck. Your father is not his friend, merely a frustrated and unsure ally who required representation. Miss Granger, I believe, has damaged that bond further after her performance in the courtroom. He opted to inform your father of what he saw over the Floo call as a result, when she would not sign over her… talents… to him. Your father is being played once again by a mere politician."

"Forgive me if I don't believe his hatred of her is down to Rosier's manipulation."

"Yes, she has proven herself a worthy and difficult adversary to him. He has previously remarked on his frustration, and Rosier has apparently delivered an outlet."

"I would like to return this to my father. With a few small, rather more Gryffindor-oriented alterations, of course. It can keep him company in Azkaban. I have an idea of how to do that, but there is some sort of imprinting charm on the box. Had she not touched it, I don't think the memories would have been stable."

"Given Lucius hasn't been found guilty yet, it would be an imprudent move to send something so easily decipherable to the key witness at his trial. He has, rather predictably, stolen the privacy charm from my research. It's designed much like a circuit, which only completes when the correct recipient touches the item." When Draco looked perplexed by the concept, he determined that the intricacies of quasi-Muggle spell theory would be lost on the boy, and continued, "It can be reset, once you have removed the memories that lie within with a simple incantation to remove Miss Granger's fingerprint."

"Dementors can't absorb good memories directly from inanimate objects, can they?"

Curious and curiouser, Snape thought. Clearly the youngest Malfoy had the beginnings of a very interesting plan, "No. Only from the prisoners themselves. If your father feels positive as a result of the box, however, they will feed on that."

"They will be happy memories, but mine, not his. Will that cause any issue with the imprinting charm?"

No. No it wouldn't. Yet Snape could not quite determine what precisely the boy had in mind. While Lucius had neglected all but the brutal and political aspects fatherhood had brought, he was not a sadist when it came to his family: Draco's happiness would not be a sufficient condition to create pain for the man. Yet retribution was certainly what Draco had in mind. Perhaps the boy was overestimating his father. After all, Lucius was certainly both aware of and incensed about his closeness to Miss Granger, enough to seek to harm her irreparably. Miss Granger. He could well imagine the memory and fantasy the man had chosen to include, given the red rings around the young man's eyes. As usual, it seemed the world sought to revolve around the unbearable girl. The world, and Draco. Snape was beginning to see precisely where the young man's mind was going, and while it was certainly an impressive idea, he was less than convinced of its effectiveness. Miss Granger, should she find out, would likely be quite cross.

As Draco tested the music box, destroying even the shadows of the memory that had been contained within, he began an offhand chat with his Godfather. He had been harsh in his fury with the man after the night in the Astronomy Tower, blaming him for the downfall of the Malfoy name and the poor treatment he and his mother had suffered afterwards. Now, with the comprehension hindsight so gracelessly provided, he harboured many regrets about the time, the support that he'd been offered, he would never get back. His Godfather was not some sort of substitute for a parent, a romantic notion that neither had time for, but rather a sturdy buoy in a vicious sea. A buoy he had been foolish to dismiss.

"I'm assuming you heard about Zabini, what he did to her."

"I had heard whispers of your gallant rescue. Is she recovered?"

"About as well as you might expect. She's been so strong people don't notice when she hurts. After everything she's done, you'd think she would be smug, but she's the opposite. The war, it took a lot from her. So when some depraved arsehole like Zabini comes along, and taps into every vulnerability, it's hard. How did someone with a mind like hers come to believe they're unattractive and overweight and worthless and all of the other bullshit he reaffirmed? It's worse than anything that happened at the Manor, and that was bad enough."

Severus Snape observed his Godson for several moments. Draco had spent many years as an arrogant, self-centred boy who had swallowed his father's entire belief system verbatim. Now, sat before him, was a different person: complex, concerned and ultimately thoughtful. His Godson was a man, no thanks to the absence of any real parenting from Lucius. Even the most stringent of messages his old friend had sought to pass on to his son had apparently been lost, lost on the floor of the drawing room of their house and thoroughly stamped out by the apparent helplessness of a certain Muggleborn this year. Evidently word of their closeness had travelled to his father, and his anger would know no bounds. Privately, Severus believed that was the best endorsement of the association possible. Miss Granger was apparently as obstinately egalitarian as she had always been, if she was so accepting of his Godson's presence in her life. _Had war taught her nothing? _He knew of the vulnerabilities Draco spoke of, of course, from Miss Granger's own mind. Not that he'd be telling his Godson. _No, she was to be protected_. It was clear, however, that there were elements that the man was aware of. Apparently, she had not heeded his own instructions to feed herself properly. That task would fall to another, for there was no possibility of the frailty of the young witch having been reversed so spectacularly since their discussion that Zabini's words held any credence. But what of Mr. Potter? He had hardly forgotten the images of their bed sharing habits. _Unfortunately_.

"Miss Granger has been obligated to maintain a keen control of the chaos around us since she was eleven years of age. Her purpose has been taken from her by means of her own success, therefore it is not so surprising she would feel an absence of worth. She has spent her adolescence without any external recognition of her… femininity. Need I remind you who her friends are? Hardly likely to have been a customary adolescence."

"Potter and that idiot Weasley, who refuses to have anything to do with them now. She rejected him, and he has determined his loyalties lie elsewhere. Potter is aware she's a woman though." Severus could not contain a slight smirk at the quiet outrage and tinge of bitterness of his Godson's tone. While he had no real desire to engage in a conversation about the boy's feelings toward the girl, it was apparent they were there. "They sleep together. In the same bed, that is. He bathed her too, with her. In the same bath!"

The portrait's amusement was quickly struck away with the all too lurid imagery of Gryffindor bath time. Nauseous, he regretted his decision to probe for any such information. At least the soft blush on the youngest Malfoy's cheekbones meant that both were aware a line of propriety had been crossed.

"Goodnight Draco."


	26. Candour

Candour

Just as the students at Hogwarts had finally accepted there was no impending duel between the Boy who Lived andthe former Slytherin Prince, another drama erupted in the Great Hall over what was supposed to be a leisurely weekend lunch. As the late Saturday edition of the Daily Prophet hit the tables, it became clear that Cepheus Rosier was not the only person to know of Hermione and Harry's appointment to the Wizengamot. Hermione spluttered over a half-swallowed spoon of minestrone when she saw the headline: 'Wizengamot War Heroes: The Golden Duo take their places'. _Duo? They were stirring the pot, then. _Further evidence of Rita Skeeter's poisonous quill too, as she eyed a reference to a page three feature on their 'enduring love story.' _Would the madness never end?_They looked at one another, all too aware of the glowering heat coming from the red-headed section of the Gryffindor table. Hermione pushed her bowl away, muttered a goodbye to Harry and made her way out of the hall only to collide with the broad torso of Draco Malfoy.

"Should I be offering my congratulations to you and Potter then?" His tone was teasing, and in her embarrassment, she missed the underlying air of possessiveness.

She groaned into him, allowing herself to enjoy the relative peace of being buried in his chest. He raised no objection to her presence, and eventually took her arm in his to guide her toward the stairs. They walked slowly, neither in any rush to let the other go, and Hermione realised precisely where they were headed when they came to a stop in front of a fine oil painting of a fruit bowl. Malfoy stepped forward slightly, reaching to gently tickle the pear, and the portrait moved aside. As an ornate green handle appeared, he opened the door for her and they stepped through. Taking seats by the nearest table, a house elf Hermione recognised appeared next to them.

"Esteemed heir to the Malfoy house, kind hearted Mudblood filth; what may Kreacher bring for you?"

As Hermione smiled softly at the elf she knew had come to reluctantly respect and perhaps even like her, she nudged Malfoy to interrupt what had been a rather funny snort and choking cough of shock at the language the house elf used. While she would never enjoy or accept being called such a name by any witch or wizard, she was proud of the progress she had made with Kreacher and would not have it undermined by confrontation. She did not miss the progress she had clearly made with her companion either, given his surprise and apparent aversion at the slur he had once thrown at her. She couldn't fail to be impressed.

"Granger here was unable to eat lunch in the hall today. Would you be able to bring us some of the soup and fresh rolls?"

Kreacher responded with a deep bow, and what she knew to be a smile even if it did look suspiciously like a sneer, and returned seconds later with bowls of rich and bright minestrone with a platter of steaming hot, crisp bread buns. A jug of lemon squash later, driven by Kreacher's knowledge of her preferences, they settled in to eat together. He had eaten only a few spoons when he began a conversation that she knew he had been nervous to broach.

He began with "I didn't steal your post because I don't think you deserve access to wizarding delivery systems, or gifts," and ended with "My father deserves his place in Azkaban, more than any other. Thank you for delivering him there. I will be returning his toy to him." He had stuttered with heartfelt earnestness, flushed with passionate righteousness, scowled at his familial adversary. She had no doubt that his father would, indeed, hear about this. He meant every word. Draco Malfoy had made an unspoken claim, sitting next to her in a House Elf kitchen, that she would never have anticipated. A claim that started in the Quidditch stands, a claim she hoped wouldn't end. She briefly pondered if that was what Thomas Riddle felt, all that time ago, as his soul split: a piercing warmth coursing through her chest, as a little bit of her heart was stolen away. Taken by a man who she had been so fearful of, who she had so disliked, who she had been tormented by. A thief, a marked man, a Malfoy, a lover. The lover. _Perhaps_. _She wished_.

She trembled, not in revulsion, but at the weight of anticipation, and expectation, and utter incredulity that had taken over. Mistaking it for cold, he held her close to him, in a way he hadn't done since the music box had arrived. Harry had kept her so close to him, she hadn't even made it to the library as often as she liked. She relished the intimacy, a nearness she had thought gone forever just weeks ago in that shack, and yearned that it not be one-sided. Their bowls disappeared before them; her soup gone but her bread untouched.

"I'll forgive the bread. This time." He smiled at her, and while she knew he was in no way joking, she felt reassured.

She had barely noticed herself eating the soup, and it did not feel so heavy in her stomach. Indeed, she felt unexpectedly light. Enjoying the sensation, she invited him back to their rooms, and when he hesitated, she reassured him by extending her hand toward him. He took it in his, and they chatted softly on the way up to the seventh floor. As they entered through the portrait, she had to let go of his hand. Finding Neville and Harry lounging in the room over an open Marauder's Map, that was likely a good thing. She barely knew how Malfoy felt, and the last thing she wanted was a humiliating rejection in front of her closest friends. As he stood, unsure, in front of them, Hermione spoke up.

"Malfoy has explained all. As always, he was saving me. It's a hobby of his. So, can I trust the three of you to behave? I need to get dressed for the party that we're being forced to attend." It was only when the three men smiled back at her that she finally felt able to retreat to her room and run a much-needed bath.

Before he could begin to repeat the explanation, Neville spoke, "If Hermione trusts you, that's more than good enough for both of us. It's a valuable hobby you've got, one we're both very appreciative of."

Potter nodded, and held out his hand in a genuine signal of a truce. Taking it firmly in his own, they shook hands. Things could return to normal now. Draco had missed her presence beyond the library, the moments he stole. He would have them back, from tonight onwards. For as long as he could take them for. Thankfully, the conversation moved to more neutral topics. Quidditch, Gardening, Brewing. Only Neville could possibly ask such awkwardly insightful questions. _What was he brewing? Could he tell them? He was stuck. Was that a useful admission? _For his pride, perhaps not, for the sake of making any progress, he had no other choice. So, he began an explanation, the briefest possible, of the Moonseed vaccine. Omitting every detail of Godric's Hollow, of course, switching things around a little to keep her secret. He could feel their eyes on him, the anticipated suspicion and laughter wasn't there. They looked pleased, keen, supportive. Fluffy Hufflepuff emotions.

"So you need a half-blood or muggleborn donor who can be determined to have generations of presence in the West Country? You're very lucky to have such a specific request." Harry grinned at Malfoy's hopelessly slumped expression and the flicker of frustration at what he clearly believed to be sarcasm. "Presenting the Hero of the Wizarding World. The illustrious half-blood whose family has historically resided in Godric's Hollow. Godric's Hollow, near Gloucestershire. Gloucestershire being in…"

"The West Country," Malfoy finished for him. Snape was a conniving bastard who kept his cards too close to his chest. This entire task could have been much more simplistic. He would most certainly be returning to give him a piece of his mind. _Greasy git_. Evidently he knew, Draco had heard his father tease him about the muggleborn he'd fancied at school as a child eavesdropping at the door of his study, and then later the odd whisper within Death Eater circles of a Potter-Snape spat as children over a girl.

"The only thing to consider really is that the muggle side of my family aren't from that area, they're from the North of England. If the blood ancestry and the geographic presence can come from different lines, you can have as much of my blood as you need. I'll be the Saviour of Hermione Granger too, free of charge." Unreservedly laughing now, the conversation moved on happily to the oddities of the Potions world and the tricky vial of Felix Felicis that had garnered Gryffindor a win in Quidditch two years previously.

Meanwhile, Hermione stepped into her dress away from the mirror. She wasn't ready to look. Not yet. The dress was more daring than she would have liked, purchased over the Summer long before she had gotten herself yet more unsightly scarring and bruising. It was a strapless lace gown, in a dark cerise with a slip of cool silk. The flare of the A-line skirt was gentle and highlighted her figure. She knew that. She knew that logically she looked thin; she could see her ribs through the tightly fitted dress. She knew that logically she looked feminine; her breasts charmed securely to offer alluring cleavage. Yet all she knew seemed to evade her when she turned to look in the mirror: all she could see was the mass of fading bruises, an imprint of teeth and that word, scrawled into her skin. Taking her wand, she hid them, flicking delicately like a surgeon to rid herself of any betraying shimmer or blur. Finally, she was able to look at herself in the mirror. Finally, she felt like a woman.

Opening the door to the main room, she felt herself flush slightly as the three men looked at her. Neville was the first to stand up, take her hand and spin her round gently. He told her she was beautiful, and his eyes held an unbiased integrity that soothed her. Harry was next, kissing her chastely on the tip of her nose and crooning about how wonderful it would be to have eyes on them because of her exquisiteness as opposed to their fame. In all that time, Malfoy had remained seated and hadn't looked away. Part of her felt her hope recede painfully, he hadn't said anything. _Why would he?_ The rest of her felt him looking at her, and knew that meant something. _It had to mean something, it just had to, or she might break into a million pieces_. Finally, he stood, grey eyes darkened with something she didn't recognise. He didn't approach her, but instead spoke.

"Granger. You really are impossibly stunning, but more bread needed. I'll have to expand our socialising schedule to the Kitchen, if you'd venture beyond the library with me more often?"

She laughed, relief. Even if his comment seemed flippant, she was comforted by his acerbic warmth. They spent some time chatting as Harry pulled on his dress robes and freshened up, and she felt Malfoy's hand creep along her wrist. His touch was gentle and tentative: his fingers powerful enough to calm the strong tides of anxiety, potent enough to make her heart spark with electricity. As Harry emerged, he accompanied them down to the dungeons on his way to brew, leaving Harry with a gruff instruction to not let her out of his sight.

Even as early as they arrived, the room was already alive with music, the steady flow of drinks and the kind of laughter that is only ever heard at Christmas. An enormous, frost covered fir tree centred the head of the room, lavishly adorned with crystal baubles and shimmering golden bows. Sprigs of enchanted mistletoe around the room ensnared the unwitting and the cunning, and the ordinarily bare walls of the dungeon were draped with emerald and gold silk hangings. The space was softly lit, with goblin wrought chandeliers of fairy magic casting a warm glow, and the air was dense with wafts of black cherry pipe tobacco and mulled wine. As they made their way through the crowd toward Professor Slughorn, who had been heartily engaged in a conversation with someone they vaguely recognised as Eldred Worple, they began to draw attention. Hermione couldn't quite determine why they were gawking, but whether it was the Wizengamot or the war, it did not change the pressure she felt on her stomach at their stares. Grateful for Harry's reassuring hand gently caressing her waist, they greeted their host.

Dressed in a rich jade velvet dress robe over a faded crimson argyle waistcoat, Slughorn was reminiscing the fashion of his glory days. "Welcome! Hermione, Harry! It's so wonderful to see you tonight, please… you must have a drink. Champagne, Miss Granger? And a warming whisky for us men, eh, Mister Potter?" Pausing to take two crystal glasses from a passing house elf, they accepted them gracefully and Hermione took as large a sip as she could manage with any elegance. "I simply must re-introduce you to Eldred here, such a talented writer… Eldred, I'm sure you've heard much about these two of course, Harry here is a top-notch Seeker. Gwenog is quaking in her boots if the rumours are to be believed… and Miss Hermione Granger is a marvel, the brightest witch of her generation to be sure. Excellent Potioneer, with innate talent for arithmancy and…"

As the portly man prattled on, Hermione took in the audience. Most guests had returned to their conversations, thankfully, but she was not blind to the curious glances and even the chance glare directed toward them in the crowd. Parties like this reminded her of why she preferred cosy evenings by the fire with a new book: among all the jealous whisperings and the delicious champagne and the twinkling decorations lay very little substance. It was a tiring exercise in stamina, stamina that she wasn't quite sure she had gained back yet. She was grateful, of course, to be included. That had never been a given as a child, yet much like the proverbial grass, she now found herself embarrassed by the compliments, blushing at the attention. _Ungrateful, Hermione, pull yourself together._

Her thoughts were interrupted by the willowy frame of Worple proffering an arm toward her, "Miss Granger, you have made quite the impression on Horace here, no mean feat, perhaps we could get to know one another better? After all, it's not every day one meets such an exquisite young woman."

Harry tilted his head down, and placed his lips softly on Hermione's temple. The older wizard's eyes widened slightly, and he took a discreet step back from her. While she would ordinarily have raised an eyebrow at such possessive behaviour, she found herself smiling instead. Both could easily recall the disaster that had been the last party they had attended within the Slug Club: neither wanted a repeat. Excusing themselves to mingle with the other guests, they were soon apprehended by an array of different people, keen to impress themselves upon the two war heroes. Wryly, Hermione noticed Barnabas Cuffe flush slightly as he introduced himself. While he did manage not to stumble over his introduction, it was clear the Editor of The Daily Prophet was all too aware of what had been printed in the edition earlier that day. After a polite, if cool and stilted, conversation, it became clear that the path of conversation they had was closely mirroring the trays of hors d'oeuvres making their way around the floor.

Finally finding a more peaceful corner and having accosted a house elf for an almost improper quantity of fresh lobster crostini, the two settled against the wall in a companionable silence for a moment. They traded amused observations about the cautiously intrigued Gwenog Jones, the booming voice of Dahlia Fleur-Peri, and the awkward inclusion of the Carrow sisters who seemed to be reluctantly collecting empty glasses from guests.

"I should've gone to dinner before this. I'm starving," Harry groaned between bites as Hermione laughed into her glass.

After another round of champagne and Ogden's, Hermione was buzzed enough to allow Harry to lead her onto the dancefloor. As Myron Wagtail warbled another ballad, she followed his confident lead. Their steps were short, with no sense of ambition like some of the other, wilder guests, but they were pressed close in a rhythm of tender affection. It was an enduring reminder of that first night of dancing in the tent, and while their movement was smoother and they avoided outward signs of laughter, she felt utterly content in his arms. Together like that, all of the eyes that were surely rested on them seemed distant and unfocused, they relaxed for the first time. Even if it made for a lavish edition of The Sunday Prophet, it was worthwhile.

Their time was punctured swiftly by the arrival of Ginny Weasley at their side. Awkwardly attempting to cut in, gone ignored by Harry who held Hermione's back yet closer. Standing alone on the dancefloor, at Hermione's elbow, she seemed determined to continue. Every nudge, every possible takeover, she attempted. Her pride kept her from asking for a dance, but only just.

Increasingly angry at their disinterest, Ginny snapped, "How quickly you've forgotten that my brother was part of the war too. You would be dead if it weren't for our sacrifices. You're both so quick to sweep my family away, we gave you so much. We gave you our brother. I gave you me, Harry. You've made yourself very comfortable as a duo, haven't you Hermione? We all saw the paper, what a disgusting way to treat a friend."

Hermione no longer had it in her to be angry, to respond, to row. Jealousy, resentment and rage had delivered the youngest Weasley a hairy heart; of that there was no doubt. Absolutely aggravated by the absence of any response and their continuing dancing, Ginny finally revealed the petty nature of her bitterness, "It's a shame you had no one to help you with your dress Hermione. They could have charmed it to look good."

It was enough, more than enough for one evening. Blurred vision now settling in for both of them, neither had the patience for any further schmoozing and made toward the exit only to be intercepted yet again by the broad figure of Cormac McLaggen. Without pausing to ask or even engage in a preliminary conversation, he had taken Hermione's hand in his and she felt a pang of biliousness as she tried to pull it back to no avail. Almost as tall, but twice as intimidating, Harry stepped forward into the man's personal space and looked him directly in the eyes, his hand taking Hermione's other hand in his.

"You look beautiful tonight, Granger."

"Not your hand to hold, McLaggen," came Harry's low bark.

As Harry guided her gently toward the exit under the guise of another glass of champagne, he grinned as he overhead Slughorn's commiserating tone behind them, "Ah, my boy, a milestone at Christmas. We are the wizards that watch great witches soar to such heights, but watch is all. The lovely Miss Granger, I do believe, has barely started her ascent. They do make a rather charming couple, I must say! Think of how lucky you are to have seen her at all, such a marvel… perhaps another drink, to settle the nerves?"

Finally able to escape the party, Harry had his arms wrapped around her as the Firewhisky took hold. He alternated between cuddling her close, swooping her up in his arms until she giggled wildly, and tickling beneath her ribs softly. Kissing the top of her spine, he felt carefree for the first time in months, and almost wished they had stayed for more dancing. She had been the belle of the ball, and he couldn't stop grinning at his luck through the fog of inebriation settling in. As they reached their room, she asked him for a favour, promising to be back before dawn. Harry, as always, gave her the cloak without question. Taking the time to wrap it around her, he whispered sweet concerns about safety and returning soon. It was the first time she had done anything unsupervised since that fateful evening in the Shrieking Shack, and while she was the most capable person he knew, there was a dash of concern that came with her absence. Sleep would surely evade him until her return.

She had barely stepped over the threshold to the Headmistress' office when the very portrait she had come to see began to grouse.

"Will I never be able to rest? I understand that the purpose of my portrait here is for the benefit of the Headmistress, not for an endless stream of school children." While Professor Snape grumbled, he had readily assumed she was there to see him, and she was all too aware of the subtle politics between the portraits competing to parade their value. Naturally, he would mock her and state himself above such petty rivalry should he be confronted on it, but his acceptance of her spoke volumes. "I suppose if you are here, bothering me, you are not acting as the pintsize purloiner you are in the potion stores."

"Good Evening, Professor Snape."

"If you're in need of a new passageway out of the castle, Miss Granger, you may want to revisit the old coot's sister." Snarling, he glowered in a direction that was clearly intended for the nearby portrait of Professor Dumbledore. "Her portrait has been moved beside the Ravenclaw common room."

She smiled as she retreated from the office, and slipped the cloak over herself once more as she walked toward the westernmost wing of the castle as quickly as she dared in her shoes. Beginning to regret her failure to change into something less formal, she felt the familiar squeeze of anxiety overtake her stomach. _What if he mocked her for her dress? How she looked?_ While she had come to appreciate the dryness of his humour and value his sardonic take on things, she was not ready for that. She was still far from pardoning his choice remark about her teeth four years ago, so to add any further grievances was imprudent. Slipping silently down the last staircase, she spied the bronze knocker in the shape of an eagle that marked her destination. As he had said, there was a large portrait of Ariana Dumbledore situated next to the entrance.

The woman stared at Hermione with a demure sense of vacancy until she pulled the cloak off, when it became clear that the young woman could recall her from their previous venture through the passage. Asking to visit Aberforth as loudly as she dared in the dead silence of the corridor, she was relieved when Ariana stepped aside and allowed her access to the opening. Walking through the long dark tunnel with the girl evoked a shadow of the tension and blessed relief of finality that had come with their entrance to Hogwarts all those months ago. Finally, she emerged into the empty living room at the Hog's Head. Leaving a sickle on the mantlepiece, Hermione stepped out into the glacial night. After all, it was generally considered bad manners to apparate within someone's home.

Merely a sharp popping noise and a few seconds later, she had returned to the oppressive terraces of Cokeworth. While she had never visited during daylight hours, she suspected that there would be no wonderful revival of the area with the advent of sunshine. Her dress seemed yet more perverse amongst the uneven, moss grouted paving stones and dilapidated housing stock. Taking the bronze key from her bag, she entered the now somewhat familiar house and made her way through the stale air to the sitting room. Professor Snape had already arrived, of course, and his impatience was showing as she lit the lanterns. Before she had an opportunity to return to the overstuffed armchair she had teased him about last time, he stopped her.

"Miss Granger, you are in my home. I expect you to present yourself with candour. Remove them, please."

She stood in front of him, eyes wide as a young doe. _He could see. Had everyone been able to tell? She would always wear sleeves._ She had specifically altered the glamour to reduce the tell-tale shimmer that so often gave the game away, yet he could tell. She looked away, distracting herself with the titles of his books, his handwriting on some parchment. Something about potion spellwork and insects. Regardless of how he knew, he knew, so she did as she was told and removed the glamours to reveal the small remnants of the deeper cuts Zabini had made, the slight scar of his teeth on her neck, the tinge of yellow bruise around her now-repaired cheekbone. Finally, she revealed the cursed carving on her forearm. _Mudblood._ She finally dared meet his eyes, _better than seeing that foul scrawl on her body_, and found they held no scorn.

"Your charms cannot mask the knowledge of others, Miss Granger." His tone cutting, yet his words reassuring. _Her glamours were not the problem, thank Merlin._ "Am I to assume we are hosting a gala, or have you attended Professor Slughorn's blasted party?"

More comfortable now, she took a seat and smiled kindly. "Oh? You didn't receive an invitation Professor Snape? I wish I had known; you could have been my guest." How she enjoyed the splutter that disrupted his usual stoicism, as he choked on her barbed niceties. The alcohol had given her a thrilling sense of liberty, and anything to distract from her forearm that was frustratingly visible in the luminous room was welcome. _Next time, she would forego the lanterns._

"You look perfectly acceptable Miss Granger. The scars do not detract any. Now, before this becomes a sickeningly Hufflepuff circle time, please do explain your little spat with the Minister. Perhaps he is the true second half of your golden duo?" He smirked, apparently he kept up with the news even now.

Severus Snape wasn't sure how he had become the confidante of the Gryffindor Princess. It certainly hadn't been his plan. Yet she held so much more interest and intrigue than any of the dull goings on at the Headmistress' office. In fact, even the most thought-provoking discussions there of late had been around the girl. His warning about Zabini had not been sufficient, he knew that: another Muggleborn hurt as a result of his failures. He was merely thankful it was only his portrait that had to feel the agony of regret now. Perhaps that was why he had become so willing to host her, and yet he knew that was a temporally flawed explanation. Dismissing the uncomfortable question behind his desire to talk to her, he focused instead on her guileful ways. She would have made a terrifying Slytherin, he'd known that for a long time. A masterstroke of kompromat had her a position at the head of the Ministry of Magic. Clever girl. More than that. Intelligent, not clever. Even when she was clearly quite sloshed.

The feeling of regret over his own failure to protect her was strong, but there was a tinge of something else too. Confirmation of his suspicions: no one who could defeat his logic puzzle as an eleven-year-old was a textbook thinker; no one who could think to disguise Potter and then bloody lie to a madwoman at the most critically dangerous point of their lives was a rote learner. Relief, he hadn't been taken in by a simple photographic memory. Perhaps now the war was over, she'd use the sheer weight of her knowledge to develop her own brand of magic. Perhaps she already had, right under his nose.

It was no surprise that she seemed to be the axis of them all. Draco. Potter. Shacklebolt. Zabini. Himself, if he was honest. She was something very special.


	27. Jump

Jump

Neville and Hermione were wrapped up so much for their duty in the village the last Saturday before the holidays that Harry couldn't help but laugh. Neville's broad frame was made larger by thick winter robes, and a black woollen overcoat that made his biceps look as though they were sculpted. He had a soft grey scarf and velvet earmuffs that made his head shape somewhat less graceful that the one he had grown into. The way his trousers hung betrayed the presence of long johns beneath them, and his dragon hide boots were lined in some sort of small animal's fur that Hermione had already mentioned disdainfully twice. She, meanwhile, looked comically small next to her far taller, heavier counterpart. She had taken a more scientific approach, her grey beanie hat and leather gloves having a gentle warming charm cast on them, and her lined boots being the sort that Dudley had worn for snow days with big grips to avoid unwanted falls. Her thin legs had her trademark jeans tight around them, and she had a Gryffindor scarf tucked into her maroon peacoat. They made quite the pair.

"Shut up Harry. We still have to get our third member anyway. Her stalker is coming with us today."

Auror Williamson had been informed of her Head Girl duties and had to accompany them. Not that Hermione wasn't grateful for Kingsley's thoughtfulness of her safety, but she found the intrusion frustrating enough without it being led by one of the rudest men she'd met. She hadn't forgotten him zapping a student at the start of the term, even if that student was some sort of psychopath. She'd also heard from Harry how he had spoken to Malfoy, and was less than impressed. However, she knew that Neville's jibes would be sure to keep the man's annoying tendencies at bay if only out of frustration, so she took Neville's arm and they left to meet the students.

Harry had his own appointment to keep. He never thought he would be voluntarily handing over his own blood to Draco Malfoy, but here he was, heading downstairs willingly to do just that. As he made his way into the advanced brewing labs, an area he vaguely knew existed from Slughorn's lectures but he had never bothered to venture into, he sensed a pungent floral steam that almost glistened even in the dim dungeon light. Taking a seat beside Malfoy, Harry teased him.

"Duel? Sword fight? Leeches? How do you want to get my blood?"

Shaking his head, Malfoy retrieved a sterilised sterling silver penknife from its leather pouch, and passed it over to him along with a tiny vial. He only needed a few drops, and told him not to go too wild. This was not a moment to be a Gryffindor, he did not want to have to explain to everyone how he'd been involved in Harry Potter's death. While he wasn't too bothered, Hermione would never forgive him. Surprisingly, Harry was conservative as he cut along his left hand and squeezed the wound until Draco nodded to confirm there was sufficient material for the potion.

Professor Slughorn had sidled into the room, ready to test the final solution before it was placed into vials for consumption. Quietly observing the rapt concentration of the youngest Malfoy, he reflected that there was indeed a skilled and creative potioneer there. When the boy had explained the reasoning behind his experimentation, he had allowed him access to the stores easily. Not just because he admired the young Miss Granger, but also to satisfy his curiosity of the man's relationship with the girl. He had not forgotten the way he had clung to her in the Hospital Wing, yet here he sat working with Harry, ostensibly her boyfriend if the party had been anything to go by.

As the blood drops were pipetted into the cauldron, the gleam of the steam ceased to glitter immediately. While Harry felt more than a little lost, it seemed that the brewer was satisfied, and asked Slughorn to test it. The Professor took a small scoop of the potion and placed it into a brass, non-reactive bowl to control the reaction. Retrieving a single moonseed from a sealed bag, he dropped it into the concoction and observed the effect. Pleasingly, the potion remained stable while the moonseed was rejected cleanly back out onto the table. It was a success. With a round fifty points to Slytherin for the production of such a novel vaccine, and the request that his notes be written up before the New Year, he said his goodbyes and strode from the dungeons, leaving them to bottle and stopper the dosages.

"Thanks Potter. I'd buy you a Butterbeer, but I said I'd meet Granger at the bookshop and I'm almost late."

Hermione was relieved to see Malfoy waiting outside of Tomes and Scrolls. It wasn't her usual haunt, but she was keen to explore the deepest recesses of the shelves and dig out a treat if she found something that tickled her. The tall young man was well wrapped, in his stereotypically prosperous looking black coat and dragon hide boots. It seemed that at some point since their third year, he had abandoned the ferret fur cap in favour of a thick ushanka, and it made her smile though she knew better than to raise his time as a polecat. What was peculiar, however, was the slight uneasiness on his expression. Draco Malfoy was rarely outwardly nervous, and she took a moment to reassure herself of the wand in her coat pocket.

As he held open the door to the shop, Williamson trailed her. He had grown fed up of her already, that much she could tell. He clearly disapproved of her fairly lenient and legal disciplinary methods toward misbehaving students and condemned her mere hour of last-ditch Christmas shopping as frivolous. Grinding her teeth, she had almost returned the count-detection self-shuffling cards she had purchased him. Almost. While she bought him a gift as a matter of civility, it was also a subtle indication that she had conducted her research into the gambling habits of the man charged with her protection. The last thing she needed was him being unable to tell her about some sort of gambling-involved security issue due to fear of her reaction.

As they stepped into the softly lit shop, Malfoy surprised her as he took her hand in his slightly damp palm and spoke quietly to her.

"So Granger, you probably don't remember, but we sent an order here last month. Today we can confirm that they're appropriate, and have them sent to the castle. Mr. Warren?"

An elderly wizard gestured for them to follow him toward the stacks, and indicated toward a specific shelf. Hermione was utterly confused, she had no recollection of sending an order of books lately, nor did she understand why she would predictably forget such a thing. As the wizard returned to the front of the shop, leaving them to their bookshelf, she voiced her incomprehension.

"Ah, well, you wouldn't remember because I may have talked through the options with you while you were sedated in the infirmary. But we had a deep discussion about every possible book, I assure you. I made some recommendations, but largely we went with what you felt was best." A slight blush graced his cheeks.

Looking over the shelf, she caught the theme. "Books about the wizarding war? Why? Who did you speak to?"

"I didn't speak. I simply listened to your horror when Neville told you the library didn't have enough of a budget to stock the topic. So we're going to provide the books for them, and when there are decent ones written about the more recent war, we'll get those too. Think of it as discretionary funding. If you take a look, each book is inscribed with the Hogwarts crest and a note of our gift to the school."

She picked up a book, out of the perhaps fifty tomes on the shelf, and opened it to its title page. Sure enough, in beautiful golden ink were the words '_Donated to the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry by Hermione Jean Granger and Draco Malfoy_.' She gasped; this was the most thoughtful thing anyone had ever done for her. It was the best Christmas gift she had ever received, and while she knew it had been expensive, what struck her most was the fact he had held a conversation with her – though unconscious – and clearly considered her preferences as she glanced down the authors. He had silently learnt her predilections. These authors were dedicated academics, not ideologues. It was perfect. She was overcome by a sudden urge to thank him, to understand him, to hold him.

As her arms wrapped around his shoulders, he caught her by the waist to help her maintain the hold of her hug, lifting her from the ground. She was warmth, and spiced jasmine, and enchantingly sweet. Especially as she leant forward into a kiss, her lips smooth and supple, striking in their virtuousness as they barely parted for him. He pressed back into the kiss, barely noticing the firmness of her breasts against his chest as he became unequivocally absorbed in her embrace. _Merlin, she was an intoxicating little witch_. He wanted to press into her mouth, deepen the kiss, but he didn't dare. _What if it brought her back to Earth, and she realised who she was kissing?_ He satisfied himself by shifting his arms to pull her legs around his hips. She didn't resist, and finally he brushed his tongue against her lips. Her mouth relaxed a little, and he moaned with the taste of peppermint and something that was very much just her.

"Can we wrap this up please? Not everyone wants to see you assaulting Death Eaters, Miss Granger."

Draco had survived the war with not a single death on his record, but in that second he could easily have killed Auror Williamson. He knew her, knew that she would take his words to heart. She squeaked and moved backwards toward the ground. He set her down, a mistake, as her whisky eyes darkened with desolate rejection. He saw the smallest hint of what he could tell would be only the first tear begin on her cheek. She turned, and left the shop. The Auror scoffed slightly, before sneering at Draco when he moved to follow her. As they entered the high street, they looked around; but there was no tell-tale pearl grey winter hat, no hint of rambunctious curls, no turned heads in the direction of a crying war heroine. She was gone.

The yuletide village of Hogsmeade lost its beauty instantaneously: the snow that had seemed so crisp and beautiful now threatened hypothermia and dangerous slips on its icy panes; the merry throng of Christmas shoppers became a field of suspects who may have any number of questionable allegiances; and the once soothing dark afternoon sky cast a daunting shadow over the looming buildings. Williamson's face had lost its colour, as they scanned the for the missing girl. If anything happened to the Senior Undersecretary, he was sure to lose his job. He had not survived a war only to be humiliated by a teenager. _Hell, he hadn't survived the war to guard a petulant teenager. Especially such a quick one. Kingsley had shafted him for sure._

"Shit. Don't you have a trace on her? Her safety is your responsibility Williamson!" Draco snarled at the man.

When the Auror had no response other than a grunt, they split up to cover more ground. Draco went into every shop, searching, calling her name and asking shopkeepers to send for him if they saw her. He had never been so grateful for the ridiculous volume of posters the Dark Lord had circulated with her face on them, at least she was recognisable. If someone saw her, they would know. He just hoped it was a friendly face, not one of the many who had managed to slip through the net. _Not again, she couldn't get hurt again_. Making it as far as the Three Broomsticks, he spotted Harry nursing a butterbeer with some of the Gryffindor boys.

"Potter, she's gone missing. Hermione, she's gone missing. Help us," Draco panted.

Instantly, the boy was on his feet and they searched the bar. Draco burst into the girl's bathroom, unperturbed by the squeals and angry shouts that his presence inspired. Hammering on one closed door until he was told to go away rather uncouthly by an angry voice he knew to belong to Pansy Parkinson, she wasn't there. _Hermione wasn't there_. Potter was waiting outside of the men's toilets, and confirmed she wasn't to be found there either. They ran out into the street. The only place left was the station, but there was no reason for her to go there. Head in his hands, he felt like hitting himself. Or preferably Williamson.

Finally, Potter rounded on him. "How did she go missing? What happened? Was she upset?"

"She was crying. Williamson, he upset her. I'm going to kill him. She could be anywhere, she could have apparated and splinched. She could have been taken. There are still a lot of people who don't like her, who don't like Muggleborns. Especially Dark Lord defeating hero ones. She's not safe." Panicking now, his thoughts were rushing out as fast as they occurred to him.

As Harry unfolded the map to check if she had returned to Hogwarts, he thought on Malfoy's words. He knew she wouldn't splinch. She had apparated with both himself and Ron as side-along participants many times under the most stressful of situations, managing huge geographical distances even while injured. He ran his hand through his hair, thinking. _Where would she go?_ When Hermione was upset, her first response wasn't magic. It was Muggle. Just like him. She would have walked, or ran. Not apparated. When her emotions settled, she would calm herself with her magic, recalling her little birds. She wasn't in Hogwarts, that much was clear. Overwhelmed, his eyes blurred into the mountainous horizon, but what else was nearby?

"Malfoy. Go find Williamson, and make sure he hasn't found her. I have an idea, maybe, I'll send a Patronus to you either way. If it's a negative, we need to contact the Auror's office."

As soon as he saw his once enemy nod and turn to run back toward the Shrieking Shack end of Hogsmeade, he disapparated with a loud crack. He had only been here once, years ago, but it was the only place he could think of in the area that she would have walked to. H e hadn't thought it could become any less hospitable, but the harsh winter made the slope below him slick with ice, the snow was thick and almost untouched. Almost. There was a small set of footprints, with grip impressions that would only be from Muggle boots. What had she been wearing? Those dark brown, wool lined waterproof boots. The ones that made her legs look impossibly small. He ventured into the cave where the footprints ended, the one where they had sat with Sirius all those years ago. Only the three of them knew this place. It had to be her.

He heard her soft tears, and the once cold, damp ceiling was alive with a light warm breeze. As he ventured further in, he saw a sprinkling mist of a rainbow over the small girl who was huddled in the corner over a bluebell flame. An atmospheric charm of some sort. Sad. Not angry, then. Her experimental spellwork had always been emotionally driven. It was a very good thing she had such an emotional range, really, given the interesting outcomes she had generated over the years. Stepping back out into the snow, he sent a whispered Patronus to Malfoy. The stag cantered down the slope with no fear, carrying a message of her safety and a request for some time.

"'Mione?" His voice was gentle, as he sat beside her and put an arm around her shoulders. Her little sobs were heartbreakingly close to whimpers, and he wished he had interrogated Malfoy a more on what precisely Williamson had done. He was happy to go straight to Kingsley to complain if necessary, he could count on one hand the amount of times he'd seen Hermione so inconsolable. Given the lives they had led, that made her perhaps the most composed girl he had ever known. Rocking her softly, he nestled his nose into her hair. The familiar smell was soothing, and settled his heart rate. The panic that had engulfed him when Malfoy had declared her missing was fading slowly, replaced by a kindling of rage ready to strike at whoever had made her feel so unhappy.

"I… I attacked Malfoy."

Harry heard the words, but wasn't quite sure someone hadn't cast a sneaky Confundus Charm. It was surely impossible that she had attacked the very man who had just torn the entire village apart in his frantic search for her. He hadn't seemed injured, even then, he was perfectly intact. Malfoy had mentioned Williamson, could she be confused? No. Something else was going on here. He began to consolingly massage her shoulder a little, thinking of how best to determine what happened.

"Can you tell me how you attacked him?"

She sobbed heavily, clearly thinking of the incident, "He bought me books so I jumped on him, and… Harry, I disgusted him. I forgot for a second what he saw with Zabini. What he saw when he found me. He finds me repulsive, and I jumped on him and Harry, I kissed him."

Processing what she said as he hugged her into him, he was increasingly sure that she and Malfoy had significant differences in how they had interpreted events. He knew from experience that purchasing books for or with Hermione was sure to lead to giddy joy and ravenous interest, not violence. Unless it was Snape's bloody potions book again. No, he'd said they were meeting in a bookshop. These weren't dark books. _She kissed Malfoy. Gross_.

"What did he do when you kissed him?" He kept his voice as even as possible, determined to keep things calm, just like she had always done with him.

"He, he lifted me up. And, well, he kissed me back I suppose. He must have forgotten who I was for a second, what he saw. And then… then Williamson, he said I assaulted Malfoy, and he was so disgusted and I jumped off and ran before Malfoy could pretend he was okay with what I did. I practically attacked him," she wept. "Harry, I've been so stupid, so oblivious. He saw me naked and ugly; bleeding, covered in Zabini's… bodily fluids, being t…touched by that, by him. How could I have thought he would ever want to kiss me? I've ruined a friendship he allowed me to keep for one mistake. I was just so impressed with the books."

"Hm. Sounds like Williamson gets embarrassed when other people kiss, and he's an arse who think he's too good to protect the most important witch possible, so he tries to put you down. Has he been an idiot all day?" She nodded softly, her tears a little quieter but very much still flowing. "Malfoy threatened to kill him actually. He was very clear about that. He doesn't seem to regard kissing you as a mistake… You know Malfoy really must like the girl's toilets, just like we said. Because he barged into them and emptied every cubicle looking for you. Weird kink, probably an inbred Pureblood thing…" As she laughed for the first time, he continued. "Or maybe he just desperately wanted to find you and make sure you're safe. That's weird too, almost as if he isn't repulsed at all."

Her tears had largely stopped now, and he felt her head shift to look at him, to determine if he was being honest. He took it as an opportunity to continue, "He saw you when you were vulnerable, and all he felt was anger at the monster that did that to you. He doesn't think you're dirty, or ugly, or weak. How could he? Even Malfoy is smart enough to know you're none of those things. You're beautiful, Hermione, and he is in no way good enough for you. No one ever will be. So he better know he's lucky, or I'll kill him once I've finished with that stupid Auror."

As she calmed, slowly he sensed that her embarrassment over worrying everyone was overtaking her panic at the assumed rejection. Stroking her hair as the embers of the bluebell flames settled, he made an effort to cheer her. "You've really outdone yourself this time, Hermione. You might have gained the House Elves proper awareness as a fourteen-year-old using only knitted hats, sure. You might have strategically engineered the victory of the wizarding world as a seventeen-year-old while being continually destabilised by two idiots, yes. But to have completely undermined the prejudice of the ferret? If that's not another Order of Merlin, I don't know what is. You could be Hermione 'om' 'om.' I think that sounds great!"

She freshened up and changed when they got back to the castle, sneaking in late under the invisibility cloak much to the frustration of Filch who grumbled about the wind as he proceeded to shut the gate again. Venturing down to the library, her stomach was battered by anxious butterflies. He was there, in her old seat. He looked up at her, and instead of the disgust, and regret, and mirth she had quietly prepared herself for despite Harry's words; she saw relief, and the release of the tension lines of his forehead. As the seat in front of him scraped backwards, she took it gratefully. He wasn't angry, he wasn't repulsed. _He was him. He understood_. They sat working on their theoretical Potions essays, surrounded by bundles of books and her neat cursive notes that he stole glances at. Not the content necessarily, he wasn't a cheat, just for the consoling evidence of her presence. Working until the lamps were dim, they swapped essays to review them. She was impressed: potential alternatives to keeping a mandrake leaf in your mouth for a month. Having quite seriously considered becoming an Animagi in the build-up to the war, it was this that put her off. She had no desire to choke to death on a plant in the night, nor wreak havoc on her teeth.

"Granger, you do know this scroll only has to be three feet long? This is taller than you. And you've managed to change the subject, though admittedly to a more interesting one. I'd never thought about why people's Animagus form is a certain animal, but you're right, they are able to be influenced by external factors. It'd take a ridiculously good Potioneer to cast at that point of the brewing process though. Slughorn is definitely going to read this aloud again," he teased.

He returned her to her rooms again that night, arm in arm, and instead of squeezing her hand goodbye, he kissed her. Lightly, a single chaste kiss to her lips; a kiss that made everything better; a kiss that made her heart jump. It left her smiling until sleep took her.


	28. Verdicts

Verdicts

Harry had spent ample time luxuriating in bed on the first Monday of the Christmas holidays. Hermione had gotten up early to guide the students returning home for the festive period to the Hogwarts Express, and he pictured just how cross and frazzled she would be by the time she returned. There were always problems, every year. A First Year would be unable to lift their trunk and lack the ability to cast a featherlight charm. The result would be someone being knocked out after a poorly managed levitation. Second years would seek to escape the station to explore Hogsmeade a whole six months early, and forget all about the train that would not be delayed for anyone. The older students would sleep in, there would be interhouse pranks, there would be arguments over the seating arrangements, and there would be tears due to at least one lost familiar. He was not too disappointed he hadn't been made Head Boy.

Lying on the firm mattress, he enjoyed the Hermione scented cotton sheets on her side of the bed. It had been an easy decision to stay this year: he had never really gotten a chance to truly enjoy the castle, not since his first year at the school. He had so little time left at Hogwarts to experience its full magic, especially away from the burning eyes of those who seemed to bring far too much drama to the everyday. It was made obvious, of course, by her decision to stay. They hadn't spent a night apart. Her nightmares had not stopped, and on some nights were more intense than ever. _No thanks to Zabini_. Last night had been difficult. She had been restless, muttering fearfully and covered in a thin sheen of sweat. He had held her, and brushed her hair back from her forehead. It wasn't enough, but it was all he could do. The term had not been as smooth as he had hoped, but the holiday was an opportunity to help her relax, recover and recoup much needed energy. With that thought in mind, he rolled out of bed and moved to run a bath for the two of them.

She arrived back exhausted, just as he had suspected, muttering about the temerity of fourth years and the questionable status of toads as an acceptable familiar. As she stepped into the room, he grinned and guided her toward the bathroom, where her babbling finally came to an end as she saw the heavy tub laden with a thick snowfall of jasmine suds and the enduring peppermint of her favourite salts. Finally, the holidays had begun. As he left to fetch towels, she slipped her clothes off and submerged herself within the joyfully hot water. Slumping back against the gentle curve of the bath, she closed her eyes and allowed the warmth to soothe the aches of the long semester that had now come to a close. She smiled as she recalled her optimism over the summer, the very idea that it would be a quiet year now a ridiculous notion that tickled her greatly.

She was pulled back from her reverie by the gentle slosh of the water as Harry joined her, opening her eyes only when he lightly tickled her ankle. He grinned easily, the bubbles plentiful enough to reach his neck, making him appear as some sort of enchanted snowman. Squealing as she felt her feet captured in his hands, he began to absentmindedly massage them as he asked for the highlights of the stressful dash for the train. She spoke softly, her flow occasionally being interrupted by contented groans as he found just the right spot amongst her metatarsals: it was the perfect start to Christmas. Once her feet and calves were lulled into revitalisation, they settled into a conversation. She knew what he needed, just as she always did, "Legilimens."

Settling into his mind, she was gentle in her exploration. As had now become customary, the first image was of her, a beautified image, her eyelids fluttered shut as he had kneaded her toes. Then came another image, and another. The first time he received a Christmas gift, an invisibility cloak and a knitted 'H' jumper; a darkened tinge of Weasley jumpers and bewitched snowballs chasing Quirrell, cast by a one-eared twin missing half of his soul; the sobbing Molly Weasley hunched over the unmoving body of Fred. _No_. She determinedly pushed it away, pulling forth the twins collaring him trying to sneak out to Hogsmede with his cloak: "'Noble men, working tirelessly to help a new generation of law-breakers." Lawbreakers who shifted into images of Sirius hugging Harry, of late-night talks in the kitchen of Grimmauld Place. _Yes. Family. Harry, you have a family. Always_. She continued easing forward, keeping her own mind as clear as she could, seeking out the space they had been working hard to secure. She found it, buried beneath images of winter visits to St. Mungo's, meeting Neville's parents.

It was different now. Chaotic, a blur of static and uncertainty, it felt less stable. Had she been neglecting him? Perhaps. She reached around, seeking out the memories of the sky he so loved to soar through, the memories that had come to inhabit this space lately. They were faint, though present. She didn't dare linger. Something was wrong. Following the memory breadcrumb path she'd paved, soon it was her again, beautiful to him, her foot lying still against his thigh. Slow beats now, calmed. She withdrew gently, and saw his eyes had closed.

"When did you last play Quidditch, Harry?"

He didn't answer. Instead, he reached for her hands, and gently pulled her toward him. She moved closer, raising an eyebrow at his rather obvious distraction technique, until he was able to guide her to turn around with a hand against her shoulder blade. Modesty protected by the lavish layer of suds, she turned and settled herself between his knees. Comfortable though she was, Harry knew he would have to answer the question, he just couldn't quite bring himself to look at her as he did so. Hermione would immediately blame herself, and he refused to see her eyes fill with anguish until he dispelled that belief. Reaching over to squirt a luxurious amount of shampoo into his hands, he took a deep breath, and finally spoke as he began to massage it into her scalp.

"I haven't played since you were in hospital. I should've been with you, should never be so far away from you." He saw her shoulders tense, and renewed the depth of his fingers at the roots of her hair. "I should be focusing on taking over at Magical Law Enforcement anyway, Quidditch is just another distraction."

"It's not just a distraction, Harry. I'm scared of flying, and if you hadn't been on the team, I probably wouldn't go to Quidditch matches. Even after the Hippogriff, and the Dragon, it scares me. But when I'm in your mind, Harry, and I get just a touch of how it feels to you when you're on a broom? It's exhilarating, it's freedom. It's not a side-line; it's so, so good for you. Good for your head, but good for your soul too. If I have to get on a broom to make you fly again, I will."

Somehow, he didn't doubt it. For a few moments, they sat in a companionable silence. Hermione hoped he would listen; she had no desire to mount a broomstick anytime in the near future. She relaxed into his hands, the repetitive movements telling of how deeply he was considering her words. A few minutes later, she spoke again.

"As for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement… well, Kingsley spoke to me about that. As a job, it's a dangerous one. With you as the Head, well, we'd need a whole department to monitor your own security before you can even get started. You're not on everyone's Christmas card lists after all. The administration and research involved too, it's a lot, I think my eight years of pushing you to do homework will seem like a holiday. The meetings! Oh, so many meetings, playing politics against Kingsley, those of similar ilk to Lucius Malfoy, coming up against me. Sound good?"

His gut wrenched, "I'd be able to look after you there. I'd always be nearby. I would manage your security."

"Until you're not, because you've gotten hurt or worse. The survival rate of Aurors has been… poor, to say the least. We've had more lives than Crookshanks so far, I don't want our luck to run out. Then who would look after Teddy?"

Sighing, he replied, "Andromeda isn't getting any better. I'm worried she's not going to be able to take care of him until the Summer. You'll always be there for him too, won't you?"

"Of course, always" she said, turning her head toward him so he could sense her conviction. "He needs you too. There are things I can't teach him, things I can't give him. We'll always be there for him. Be a role model for him, be the man you want to be deep inside and show him how important it is to be happy. What would make you happy, Harry?"

He leant forward, his forehead resting on her shoulder. His head hurt. _She was so frustrating at times like this, so bloody right about things_. "You. Teddy. Safety. Beyond that? I don't know."

They spent the next hour appreciating the warm seclusion of the bathroom before getting out, ready to explore the promise of an empty castle to enjoy a peaceful Christmas within. Finally dressed, she heard a quiet drumming noise. As soon as she saw the owl pecking at the window, she knew what the letter held. Kingsley had warned her to expect news before Christmas, and the Ministry closed for business in two days' time. Taking the parchment, she shut the window before the biting chill could take hold of the room. Shouting her goodbye through to Harry, who was shaving in the bathroom, she hurried toward the library. Madam Pince had left for the holidays this year to spend more time with her ailing parents, so apart from the occasional visit from Filch, the library was theirs. The air was still, but she felt sure he would be there. If not yet, then soon.

Walking amongst the stacks, her feet felt unduly heavy in the silence of the library, and she considered whether it was the enormity of the message contained within the letter that weighed her down so. She felt as though she needed to take a gulp of air, but found the atmosphere densely cloying, until she turned the final corner to their table and saw him there. His back was straight, shoulders broad where they could be justifiably slumped, and his delicate masculine features were deadpan. The only clue to his anxiety lay in the way he palmed the parchment: sliding it between his fingers, rotating the envelope in his hand.Taking her seat opposite him, she finally met his eyes. There was fear there, apprehension too. Though of what, she didn't know. Though she believed his condemnation of his father, he was still his dad, and she harboured an empathetic suspicion that when it came to the sentencing, things may be more complex. He might not forgive her, she knew.

"Draco."

The use of his first name flowed naturally from her mouth, and his shoulders softened in response. He had worried that she wouldn't come. They hadn't agreed to do this together, but he still came. This was a safe place. She was safe. He knew that, and was relying on it. In many ways, he believed he could not have picked a more awkward audience to learn of his father's fate with. She was irrevocably entwined with him after all: she was a Muggleborn and his father had made damn sure she knew it, she had duelled him, been a victim of torture in their home, and sealed what he understood would be contained within the paper through an astute falsehood. That wasn't to say he was bitter, not at all. She had done the right thing. Regardless of whether it was to be due to a conviction of not, he knew his father was not fit to walk amongst others, his father could never be trusted to do no harm. He had proven that, time and time again, over the course of two wars and afterwards. There was no possible salvation for Lucius Malfoy.

Taking the envelope from his hands, Hermione extended her leg so it brushed up against his, determined to comfort him as he would allow. He pressed his calf against hers, and she was reassured she had done the right thing. There would be time for consoling, for cuddles, but they had to do this. She didn't want any additions from Kingsley in her letter to make this any more difficult than it had to be, and so she steadied her hands as much as possible, and pressed her nail around the wax seal. She kept her eyes on him as she opened the envelope, and pulled out the paper. His eyes were on her hands, unblinking.

"Having reviewed all of the aggravating and mitigating circumstances presented in the case, the Wizengamot finds Mr. Lucius Abraxas Malfoy guilty of absconding, and seeks to return him to continue serving his life sentence at the Azkaban Fortress. The court has also reviewed the allegations against the defendant for criminal acts committed during the period of escape, and further finds Mr. Malfoy guilty of membership of a proscribed organisation, carrying a penalty of ten years to be served concurrently; of eighteen counts of the inhumane treatment and murder of Muggles, carrying a life sentence for each count to be served consecutively; and of bribery of a Ministry of Magic official, carrying a penalty of five years to run concurrently. The Wizengamot acquits Mr. Malfoy of charges of the inhumane treatment of Miss Hermione Granger, Miss Luna Lovegood and Mr Dean Thomas, finding the mitigating circumstances of his own imprisonment to be sufficient grounds to believe he was acting partly in fear of his life. Instead, we order that reparations as set out in the Lufkin Civil Statute of 1799 be provided to each of the three."

Folding the paper back, so he would know that was all there was to know, she barely took in the words she had read. She knew that the sentence would be announced publicly in the New Year, and was grateful for the time they had to process their own thoughts about it before it became a matter of public conjecture. Hermione knew that starting a year on such a high, as it would surely be perceived by the public, was a shrewd political move; but the control on the press that made such a delay possible unnerved her somewhat. Was it any wonder that The Daily Prophet had so quickly fallen into line with Voldemort once the Ministry had fallen? As much as she felt it was little more than a tabloid rag, it was one of very few options for those wishing to stay up to date. It would have to change, but for now, she pushed aside those thoughts in favour of the man in front of her.

"I'm sorry."

It was the last thing she had expected to hear from him: she had long ago separated the father and son in her mind, and had never tied the actions of one to the conscience of the other. Regardless, Lucius Malfoy was going to Azkaban, and would remain there until death. There had been no attempt to leverage a Dementor's Kiss, something that had thankfully been suspended in the wake of the scandals surrounding the allegiances of the prison guards, but otherwise the sentencing could hardly have satisfied her more. She had steeled herself for anger, anger he had perhaps hidden from her that day in the Shack, but she sensed none. Not yet.

"He shouldn't have gotten away with what happened to you. I'm so sorry."

She leant forward and took his hand in hers, relieved when he didn't recoil, "Draco, he didn't get away with anything. Even if that's what the sentence said, he will never pose a danger to anyone again. That's all I could ever have hoped for… that he can't be part of doing that again."

"What's to stop him escaping? What's to stop him coming back?"

She paused. She wanted, desperately, to tell him it was impossible, but that was a lie. The unbreakable prison had been broken many times: Sirius first, then every Death Eater to grace the building. She couldn't, she wouldn't lie, "If that ever happens, we'll find him, and we'll put him back there."

He shivered, chilled to the bone with the mere idea of her hunting his father down, "Don't want you to ever have to see him again. Don't want you to go and do those wild adventures. You won. You should be safe now, but thanks to him, you're not. I want him to pay for what happened to you. I want him punished for your nightmares. Punished for my nightmares."

She wanted to cuddle him close, wanted to steal away his nightmares, wanted to hold him like a murex and listen to the whispers of his closely guarded heart. Their much loved, much used table now seemed an irritating prison. She stood, and guided him to his feet. Holding his hand, they made their way to the rug by the roaring fire, settling there together. She held him much like she had on the Quidditch pitch, enjoying their proximity all the more with the warmth of the hearth.

"Tell me about him?"

He did. He started with what she knew him as, a violent and startlingly determined follower of the Dark Lord, easing into explaining the terror his father had inspired within him. Lucius Malfoy, to his son, was a man who professed to value family above all else. It was a declaration that Draco had believed, for the longest time, blaming anyone other than the man who wielded the cane, the whip, and latterly the wand for the pain he was served. After all, when he went to his father, he would support him. He was loved, simply kept on a tight rein. It was only when he saw the relief etched on his mother's face within the safety of her rooms at home after the first trial that he began to question what Lucius was. The delicate lines of her forehead seemed to smooth, she smiled more, she seemed to exist beyond mealtimes. His father's imprisonment granted his mother her freedom. So, while outwardly it was a humiliating political experience for the family, the serene atmosphere within their home was a revelation to him.

His father's return from Azkaban had been a brutal shock. He was bitter: he lost his mum back to her shell; he lost the sensation in his fingertips from his father's brutal Cruciatus Curse; he lost his will to live thanks to the task the Dark Lord set him. All were due to his father, and his failure at the Department of Mysteries. The only thing that held him together was the idea that at the end of it was the world his father had taught him to aspire to: where they would be respected, where they would have power, where the very people he had learnt to despise would no longer undermine him. The reality was crushing, of course, held prisoner in their own house with his family's name in disgrace to their leader. Living in filth, treated as an inferior; he discovered empathy with the prisoners. Something broke inside of him, the day the trio were captured. He didn't want to watch someone else die for a cause that wasn't delivering on its promises, a cause that he simply didn't believe in anymore. Without it, though, he wasn't sure what else he had.

"My father's actions have perhaps irreparably harmed the Malfoy name, but that doesn't mean I have to accept it. He taught me a lot, despite everything. He taught me that even when you appear on the wrong side of history, during the first war, that with enough effort, you can come to be well regarded again. His version of effort was money, which given our wealth was hardly an effort at all. It seemed so easy to me, growing up, watching that work time and time again. Now, knowing you? It's bullshit, isn't it? He's getting away with that again, too easily, with the reparations we owe you."

"I don't want your money, Draco. Keep it. Do something good with it."

"I'd rather that money sit in your vault, even if you don't want to touch it. It's yours. I have something else for you too. Not… not because of my father, it's nothing to do with that, it's because I wanted to."

They had settled into a comfortable embrace, and for the first time since they'd sat down, he let go of her hand. Digging into his bag, he withdrew a vial containing a rich mulberry potion and a soft leather-bound journal, resting them in front of her. She concentrated on the potion, but couldn't identify it. He opened the journal and gave it to her. As she began to read the careful notes, her eyes widened. There was no title, and the first half of the journal made clear that the potion in front of her was borne of a plethora of failures that ruled his ideas out. Slowly, and with some advice, it took shape and became the vaccine that would prevent her ever feeling the pain she had that day at the cottage. She felt tears running down her face as she realised what he had achieved. Achieved for her. He tenderly wiped them away, his thumbprints burning into her heart.

"You really know how to deliver at Christmas," she laughed, shaking slightly, "First the books for the library, and now a whole new vaccine for me. No one has ever spoiled me so much."

He leant in and kissed her lips, ever so softly, as though she were a precious porcelain, "I hope you know these aren't your Christmas gifts, Hermione. These are just little things I want to do for you. You make me want to take care of you. Will you let me do that?"

Speechless, for perhaps the very first time, she carefully set the vial and journal aside, and shifted to kneel in front of him. His outstretched legs around her, she nodded, and raised her hands to gently caress his neck and jaw. His arms came around her waist, and urged her toward him. Overwhelmed by his thoughtfulness, by his vulnerability, by him; she allowed herself to drown in his soul searing kisses.

Far from the library, Harry had ended up on the very Quidditch Pitch he had vowed not to return to. It was his favourite time to play, the ground was laden with a harsh Scottish frost that always allowed a hard kick to propel him into the sky. Despite this, he had kept his word. He hadn't been on a broom since he'd spoken to Kingsley. There had been no great, gut-wrenching urge to fly; instead there had been the growth of a deep-rooted listlessness. Hermione knew it, even before she'd seen the blurred gap in his mind. She always knew when it came to him. He wished he had such insight, but short of seeking out Professor Trelawney on the off chance of overhearing relevant prophecy, he simply didn't dare look too deeply within himself. _Look within himself_. An idea hit him, and he sprinted as fast as he dared on the frosty path back to the castle and up to the seventh floor.

He wasn't sure what he was expecting. Hermione had long maintained that the Fiendfyre had removed the magical properties within the room, and he had not seen anyone return there on the map. It was, to all intents and purposes, gone. Yet, three turns later, a familiar door was visible. Palming the handle, wand drawn by the relentless thought in the back of his head that the fire might still be raging inside. He pushed open the door, and saw the last thing he had anticipated. It was pristine, even down to the thick layer of dust that implied the age of the items. His heartbeat was deafening. Everything was there, the blistered old cupboard in which he had hidden his old Potions book, the pock-marked stone warlock wearing a dusty, old wig that had once been the hiding place of the Ravenclaw Diadem. The Room of Hidden Things had survived.

He traced the now well-trodden route to his destination. There it was, the very thing he needed. Every inch was perfect. From the clawed feet, his eyes ran wantonly up the gold frame until they caught the inscription atop the mirror. _'I show not your face, but your heart's desire.'_ He wanted that. He needed that. He was surrounded, suffocated even, by his own face staring back at him. It had been the case since the Triwizard Tournament, the crushing weight of his reality and even alternate versions of reality thrust upon him. Then had come the Wizengamot Trial, the Department of Mysteries fight, the Chosen One rumours and his status as Undesirable Number One. Now? He was a hero, that's what they said. He didn't feel like a hero. Nothing felt real anymore.

Whether it was a good idea or not, Harry felt that wasting away before the mirror was no different to doing so before the flashes of Prophet photographers or as Kingsley's new chief enforcer. It had been a long time since he'd questioned if something was possible: if this was a chance to shift through some of the fog that clouded his future, it was an opportunity he wouldn't walk away from a second time. There was no Dumbledore to steer him away. There was no deep desire to disturb the calm passing of his parents, his Godfather, his friend. There were things he wanted to fix for others, yes, but the mirror should only show him what he wanted himself, surely?

Cautiously stepping toward the mirror, he couldn't quite bring himself to look at the reflection. Instead, he sat, crossing his legs like a child and failing to resist the urge to cuddle them in his arms. It reminded him of all those years ago, when he sat gazing adoringly at his parents. Having met them more vividly in the forest, he was no longer quite so entranced with the magic they had held. Then he looked. He was right, after all he had seen, the magic was not quite as enchanting as it had been to him as a small eleven-year-old. Yet, concretely it served him an answer. There, above his shoulder, was a broom. Silver revolving stirrups, polished ebony wood, tapered lengthy bristles. A Nimbus 2001.

Before he knew where it was, he was standing over the broom and palming it in his hand. It didn't feel alive, not like his Firebolt, but it didn't matter. He'd seen what he coveted most. He felt more relief than he'd known he needed, and curled his fingers around the girth. Exhaling, for as long as he could, he smiled. He let go of the broom, left the mirror behind, and walked up to the Owlery to confirm his new position at Puddlemere United.


	29. Socks

Socks

Christmas was better than she could have anticipated. Harry, as always, woke with the dawn. She understood his excitement: though he preferred not to talk about it, his childhood had clearly been far from a happy one. It was why she found such joy in finding gifts for him, the bright-eyed grin and unwavering surprise it always generated before he had even smoothed open the paper. Draco had been invited along, and to her astonishment, he was keenly waiting by the tree when they emerged to their sitting room. She felt a little nervous, her hair brushed into a ponytail and tartan pyjamas on, she was hardly looking glamorous: yet he couldn't take his eyes off her. Neville had appeared ten minutes later, grunting slightly at the early hour. Standing to attention by the tree, Kreacher delivered a large pot of tea, and an almost never-ending tower of gingerbread pancakes, and waited idly by as though he expected more orders.

As the group made early morning small talk, Harry couldn't take the waiting anymore and asked if they could open the not insignificant pile of gifts now. Hermione grinned and nodded, settling down to watch him enjoy his presents over a steaming cup of tea. Draco didn't know much about Harry Potter, though for many years he thought himself an expert on the boy. What he had known was newspaper hyperbole or streaked with his father's bias: a half-blood boy who corrupted a reasonably well-regarded bloodline, somehow weakened the Dark Lord, and became drunk on the power and celebrity it produced. None of that had made sense for a while, but seeing the childlike excitement on Potter's face made those assessments seem farcical. He determined to follow Hermione's lead in observing how he opened presents.

Harry was fully engaged in the unwrapping process. He would select a gift, the furthest from him first, then read the gift tag aloud before pressing the spellotape from each parcel carefully so as not to damage the wrapping paper. He valued every gift equally, his features alive with an incredulous happiness, as though a little part of him believed the parcel would be cruelly empty. His enthusiasm was infectious, and Draco couldn't help but see how happy Hermione was to watch on. Ordinarily he would have felt jealous, but the boy seemed so young that he couldn't bring himself to view him as a rival, not while watching this.

There was a leather-bound photo album filled with photographs of Teddy; an enchanted repeat-practice snitch from Hermione; a deluxe box of yet to be released WWW products sent from George, including some Diarrhoea Dummies that Harry made a note to cautiously avoid; an antique map of the Hogsmede grounds from Hagrid; a deluxe box of Honeyduke's sweets from Ron; and a tin of plump, sloe gin mince pies from Mrs Weasley that he hastily pushed toward Hermione, hoping they would be taken as a gift to the two of them. Finally, there was one package left for Harry. A small bundle, crudely wrapped in what looked to be a cheesecloth. There was no note attached to it. He carefully unfurled the present, revealing a lurid yellow pair of knee-high socks decorated only with a slightly brown stain on the righthand toes. Still, the boy smiled, softly now, as though the gift saddened him rather than the disgust Draco felt he could righteously express.

"Socks, Master Potter. Kreacher understands that you would receive them from traitor elf Dobby. It is Kreacher's responsibility now."

Harry and Hermione had teared up at that, and pulled a snarling, twisting Kreacher into a hug that the bitter elf clearly despised. With a pop, the elf disappeared from the room and seemed certain to never return. Draco could remember Dobby, of course. _The most troublesome house elf the world had ever seen_. Clearly, the creature was some sort of friend to the two Gryffindors, and he hadn't known the fate of the elf after the Manor. To dispel the tension, he helped Neville divide the remaining gifts, and pushed Hermione's pile toward her. She glanced over the wrapping, clearly uncomfortable at having all of the attention. That would have to change, but for now, Draco was willing to concede to her comfort and open his first gift. Neville followed his lead.

Hermione had never believed she would ever open presents alongside Draco Malfoy, let alone imagined how natural it would feel. She gave Harry and Neville close hugs for their gifts, before sitting down to open the last one: medium sized, tight creases of matte black paper and clean lines of delicate silver thread. Draco's gift. She paused, anxiously waiting for him to finish opening the set of crystal potion vials and accompanying first edition tome of Moste Advanced Potions for Healing and Medicines. His mouth open in a most unlikely way, she wasn't quite sure at first if that was a positive reaction, but by the warm twinkle in his eyes as he looked up at her, it had been a good choice. Only then did she unwrap her final gift. Within was an octagonal box in gilded walnut, with a polished golden clasp. Feeling a rush of warmth as she opened the piece, it was certainly magical. Lifting the lid to reveal a rosewood mirror and a smoothly turning pearl figurine rising up from within the near-perfect silk lining, the box began to play a rich rendition of Liebesträume. Enchanted by the music, she almost forgot to look within until she heard Harry's soft gasp beside her. Within lay a white gold lavalier with a teardrop peridot set ruby. It was the most exquisite piece of jewellery she had ever seen, and something she simply could not accept. Draco reached for the chain, and unfastened it, tenderly moving her hair aside as he settled the piece at the nape of her neck. He turned to look at her, his eyes betraying a slight nervousness, as she remained too shocked to speak. When he saw the beginnings of tears forming, he began to talk. He hadn't expected her to be upset by the gift.

"The box is charmed to only open for you. I know I did technically take away the jewellery box my father sent, so along with my original gift idea, I had a duty to replace it. If you don't like the necklace, we can…"

He was interrupted by a tearful laugh, "It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen, it's just too much."

"No. It's not enough. You saved everything, and even after it all, you allowed me into your life, and that is a gift I can never hope to match. Now, stop crying, Granger," he blushed.

Neville ousted the awkwardness around the sudden display by teasing Harry about the swathe of chocolate that had settled around his mouth, and they all agreed to get dressed and ready for a snowball fight in the grounds. Neville took a final look at the necklace as he turned back toward his own room: there was little doubt that Malfoy was pursuing Hermione. He supposed he should have seen it earlier, but it just hadn't seemed possible. To give her such a priceless heirloom was likely only shocking in terms of expenditure to Hermione, but he knew that it would have been taken from the family vaults, and to Malfoy it was a clear yet unspoken signal of his long-term intentions with her.

The quartet met in the courtyard, all tightly wrapped in their thick winter coats, hats, scarves and gloves. While Hermione initially set about constructing an intricate snowman, her efforts were soon destroyed by a rapidly fleeing Neville who was retreating under a barrage of snowballs that came thick and fast. Realising that there was little choice other than to join in, she set about transfiguring a pine cone into a protective barricade, before setting up a protean charmed assembly line of snowball production, while Neville caught his breath.

At that moment, Malfoy's head popped up above an improvised trench, "Granger, you can't use magic, that's not fair!"

"What? You're charming the snowballs too!" She yelled, face pink with cold.

"Yeah but you're better at magic, so it's an unfair advantage," came Harry's voice.

Ignoring his pleas, as Neville began to throw snowballs over the fence toward Harry's voice, she bewitched a pile of the perfectly round orbs to hit her best friend. That certainly escalated the fight, and soon Neville and Harry had relegated themselves to watching from the sidelines as the two more competitive players continued. It soon became far more about magic than agility. Malfoy captured each of the snowballs in Ebulio Jinx bubbles that he was better able to control, while Hermione depleted his supply of snow by creating a strong atmospheric charm more reminiscent of Cairo than Scotland. As he set about summoning more snow, she began casting concealing charms on the snowballs that she dispatched to seek out their new target. As her protective shelter was suddenly vanished from in front of her, she sent a tongue-tying jinx his way, smirking in the knowledge that he was far from proficient in non-verbal magic. As the disillusioned snowballs began to pelt him with no mercy, he apparently abandoned all hope and simply ran toward her. Despite her best efforts, he caught her in his arms and they fell to the floor in a pile of laughter.

So heavily engaged in the fight that was far more appropriate for excitable first years, the group failed to noticed Professor Flitwick watching over them from his office, accompanied by the Headmistress and the Head of Slytherin. Clutching scalding mugs of hot chocolate, the three couldn't help but smile at the candid spirit of the students. As Malfoy finally surrendered, exhausted, Slughorn reluctantly passed Flitwick a gleaming galleon. It was expensive to be a House Master sometimes.

After drying off, and changing into warm clothes, they made their way to the Great Hall. While previous years had necessitated only a small table, the war had created an exorbitant number of empty homes for students to return to, and a number of the younger children had little choice but to stay at the school. Taking the empty seats that were left closest to the professors, they sat together and took in the mouth-watering meal that lay before them. The atmosphere was pleasantly loud, with wizarding crackers exploding brightly, and the table full. Platters of golden turkey and medium-rare beef; casserole dishes of mashed and roasted potatoes; bowls of mashed swede, glazed spiced carrots, brussel sprouts and minted peas; oversized Yorkshire puddings and glistening pigs in blankets, and the customary thick, dark gravy sat in boats on the table. The house elves had outdone themselves, and the boys tucked in. Hermione remained more conservative, nervous about her choice, but the comforting nudge Draco gave her was enough for her to pick out some vegetables.

Hermione's eyes swept over the staff. They were merrily tucking into their food, with Trelawney and Rakepick having what seemed to be a light-hearted argument over the merits of protective amulets; Dumbledore and McGonagall were chatting about the latest article in animal transfiguration; Professor Sprout was ignoring the chatter beside her as she tucked into her overflowing plate of tender roast beef. Finally, overhearing the sickening flirtation between Madam Hooch and Professor Slughorn made Hermione turn her attention back to her friends. Discussion of what their lives post-Hogwarts would look like had once terrified her, not daring to hope that she would live that long and with little knowledge of what she sought beyond academia, but now it flowed easily. She knew, of course, that Draco was pursuing a Potion's Mastery at St Mungo's. He would do so well there, she knew, he had even managed to make the Moonseed Vaccine palatable. It was also, though she kept the thought silent, just the sort of 'effort' he craved to engage in, giving back to society, doing something worthwhile. Neville seemed impressed too, as Draco mentioned that he would like to launch some special projects specific to each case on the Janus Thickey Ward.

Neville wasn't sure yet, similarly having feared not making it to the end of the war, "I don't know. Now the Potions requirement has been dropped, I'm thinking about joining the Aurors. Though I think I preferred the organising and planning bits of the DA last year. It'd make my Gran proud, at least. She's been a lot cheerier since the Department of Mysteries. What about you, Harry? Still planning to become my boss?"

Quelling his voice slightly, keen to avoid the gossip pages having a field day, Harry replied, "Ah. Well, I guess I can officially deliver this news to the esteemed Senior Undersecretary to the Minister, but I've actually signed for Puddlemere United starting this summer."

Hermione buried him under an exaggerated hug, complete with gleeful squeals, only letting go when he was gasping for breath. They began discussing Quidditch, and for the first time, Hermione was enthused by the conversation. She vaguely knew that Puddlemere wasn't based too far from Potter Cottage: it really couldn't work out any better, though he didn't know that yet. In fact, when Draco queried how he'd feel returning to the endless travel schedule they'd had on the run, his face dropped slightly.

"Yeah, the others all have families and things, so I guess I'll be on my own a lot," he spoke, as his worried green eyes found Hermione.

"Oh Harry, you won't get rid of me that easily. We have Teddy to look after, and I'm not doing every night shift so you can just swan around the country in nice hotels. You're coming home after practice!"

It was Draco's turn to turn slightly pale. While he wasn't about to drag her off to Malfoy Manor and enforce a marriage contract on her, the idea of her living with Potter and a child wasn't exactly appealing. _Their home_. Between that and her job, would she even have time for him? He knew she would never agree to remain at home, and that was part of her charm: she was no Pureblood Princess. She was ambitious, and driven, and busy. He just wondered whether she'd drive herself away from him. As if sensing his unrest, he found his fingers intertwined with hers beneath the table, squeezing his hand slightly. Turning the conversation toward holidays past, they entertained each other with stories of Hermione's diary 'gift' when she finally got tired of desperate all-nighters completing Harry and Ron's homework; Neville gifting interesting plants to his parents each year until the Devil's Snare incident; Draco's hesitation to accept anything edible from Pansy Parkinson lest it be infected with a love potion. Finally, entirely too full, they pushed their dessert plates away.

After an hour to recover, Neville excused himself to visit St. Mungo's, while Hermione, Harry and Draco elected to visit Professor Snape's portrait. Arriving to the office, McGonagall wasn't in, so they pushed the door open themselves. All three had spent considerable time within the room, and they drew chairs in front of the portrait wall. Many of the inhabitants were absent, perhaps celebrating the day with friends, but Professor Snape was indeed present, along with Professor Dumbledore and several other less recognisable men.

Overhearing Phineas Nigellus Black's groan about the repeated intrusions of late, Hermione turned to him, sweet voice laced with poison, "Did you prefer the peace and quiet of my bag?"

Grumbling something that sounded awfully insulting, Harry laughed as the portrait decided to visit elsewhere in the castle before Hermione followed through with her threat. He had forgotten that Dumbledore would likely be present. While the relief of their victory, and their interaction at the foggy King's Cross Station, had largely allowed him to move forward from his frustrations at the wizard, he knew that to be far from the case for Hermione. She, as always, had opted to support him by carrying what she felt ought to be his anger; along with a great deal of her own frustration at Dumbledore's failure to share crucial research with her. Her jaw was set, already, and Harry hoped that the older portrait might take leave. Unfortunately, the figure seemed settled and confident.

"Merry Christmas, Professor Snape! We thought we'd brighten your day with our presence."

A sardonic eyebrow raised; Snape did not miss the girl's exclusion of his predecessor from the greeting. Looking over the curious trio, he considered the absence of tension. _Strange_. Who would have known she would be the one to hold the heaviest grudge? "Miss Granger. Draco. Potter. How quickly you have chosen to turn your insufferable dedication toward becoming the bane of my life."

If Harry was surprised at Hermione's bright smiling response, he didn't say anything. Instead, he trained his eyes on Dumbledore, trying to urge him to leave. The old man had never taken well to social cues, and it seemed death had changed him very little. After making a respectful amount of small talk, Harry excused himself. He could feel his old potion's teacher meeting his eyes just a little too much, and he was worried about causing any further upset through his appearance. _Not at Christmas_.

"I have something for you, Professor. For Christmas." As Hermione spoke, Draco turned to her, slightly embarrassed by his own failure to procure a present for what was, after all, his Godfather. He hadn't been aware it was possible to provide a gift to a portrait. "I know that the scenery may be getting a little bland, so I've taken the liberty of requesting a new portrait of you is placed into my office at the Ministry. It'll mean you can explore there, meet new people, enjoy people's stupidity…"

"… be your spy. I know you and the unscrupulous means by which you come to be such a know-it-all too well, Miss Granger. I have no desire to return to that particular profession."

"Nor would I ask you too. I would prefer your guidance to your eavesdropping," she smiled, unfazed.

"If you desire my company so very much, Miss Granger, you only had to say so. It had better be a very comfortable portrait, and I will accept no others in the room. Your incessant babbling will surely be more than enough to drive me out, without the intrusion of others."

Draco couldn't quite believe his ears. Hermione Granger willingly spending time with his Godfather in the privacy of her new office was far from his understanding of their relationship, and the nature of the man's response was dry and teasing, entirely lacking the malice he had expected. He felt as though he were watching a fast paced Quidditch match, and there was such familiarity there that this surely was not their first conversation. He felt a headache coming on, and he could feel the eyes of Dumbledore on the two of them. _Ticking time bomb_. He wasn't sure of the details, but it was clear that Hermione didn't want to speak to the old man.

"Potter ran away awfully quickly, didn't he?"

Instead of being the icebreaker Malfoy needed to access the apparent understanding between the two, he sensed a hesitation from his Godfather, the awkward silence being broken by Hermione, "Harry and Professor Snape didn't exactly get on, I think he didn't want to ruin his Christmas by being too visible."

Before Draco could remind her that she was hardly his favourite, despite their apparent and bizarre relationship now, Snape spoke: "Please tell Mr. Potter that while I am not clamouring for his presence, it does not serve merely to remind me of the past. Bygones may, with time and the opportunity for peace, be bygones."

Unable to decipher the code between the two, Draco redirected the conversation again. "Apparently Crabbe's Fiendfyre didn't destroy the Room of Requirement. Potter found some mirror there that 'told' him to sign for Puddlemere United. I thought he hated Divination almost as much as you did, Granger?"

"The Mirror of Erised. It's where the Philosopher's Stone was hidden back in our first year. It supposedly shows you what you desire most in the world. After that particular incident, it was hidden in the room, but I'm quite sure that it lost its magical properties in the fire. I'm a little surprised that the room itself is still accessible. Professor?"

As Dumbledore's portrait moved to speak, Snape's silky tone took over, "The security wards of the castle may have been able to contain the fire, most particularly in that room, given that you no longer had any need for the its materialisation once you had escaped. Fiendfyre would ordinarily be strong enough to overcome that, but perhaps there had been some attempts to control it. Did either of you cast toward it?"

"The wand I was using wasn't responding to me well," Draco admitted.

"I didn't cast on the fire, I didn't know the counter curse at the time. I charmed as many things as I could to be non-flammable to try and direct the fire away from us."

Pausing in thought for a moment before speaking, Snape considered how useful a textbook knowledge could be sometimes. _How exasperating_. "That decision makes reasonable use of the theoretical properties of the curse, though your practical inability is hardly unexpected. When it ran out of items it could burn, the curse would have turned in on itself. Though you cannot protect magic, so I doubt Potter saw what he claims. It would not be the first time he has misled others, after all."

"Harry wouldn't lie! I think he did see a broomstick. Just, maybe, it was actually sitting in front of the mirror. And maybe it's not capable of flying anymore."

The three reflected on her words: could Potter really have simply seen his backdrop reflected in the mirror and believed it to have revealed his heart's desire? Hermione seemed sure, and apparently was in no rush to tell him of his error. She could tell Snape's eyes were on her, considering her decision not to tell. Ordinarily, he would have felt the tragic lifetime of secrets Harry Potter had suffered through, and overcome, should have marked the beginning of a new, more transparent era. Yet, he couldn't think of any other person who had prioritised the boy's interests so completely. He would, difficult as it was, trust her decision. As he came to his conclusion, a faint voice echoed from a nearby space.

"The real magic of the Mirror of Erised is, perhaps, not truly lost."

Dumbledore had finally piped up, and several of the portraits around him visibly flinched as Hermione's burning eyes sunk into him. She had been quite content to ignore him, and his contribution of further poetic grandiloquence did nothing to temper her dislike of the man. Sitting in front of him had clearly been testing enough, and Hermione would not allow his attempt to partake in the discussion to stand.

"We've already reached that conclusion ourselves, thanks. I think I've had quite enough for today; we should head back. Have a lovely Christmas, Professor Snape."

Walking out of the office, she ignored the snobbish baritone of Phineas Black's assessment of her character as a girl who had always been rude with ideas above her station. In fact, Hermione seemingly only took a breath as they arrived back to her rooms. As she exhaled, she turned to face Draco, preparing to ask him to not mention the issue with the mirror to Harry before they entered. Before she had a chance however, he spoke.

"I won't say a word," he said, before placing his large hands on her slight waist, and leaning down toward her.

Taking her lips, he was less tentative that they had been previously, her words at lunchtime about her home with Potter and the strange closeness she had with his Godfather still dominating his mind. He eased his tongue into her mouth, and savoured the way she yielded to him, cherished the slight taste of chocolate that graced the essence of something that he'd only ever found when kissing her. He pressed her closer, her chest insistent against his abdomen, desiring as much contact as possible, only stepping back when he elicited a soft moan from the beautiful little witch. She was unforgettable, she was his, she had to be. Recognising her dark eyed dizziness, he guided her through the portrait where they found Harry and Neville setting up battered Muggle and wizarding games in preparation for a relaxing evening by the fire.

Eventually, their energy was spent on the more visceral Wizarding games, and they settled on the sofas playing Scrabble. It had taken so long to explain the rules, and still had disintegrated into a competition between Harry and Hermione. Draco had fallen asleep around half an hour into the game, his head coming to rest on Hermione's lap, where she tenderly stroked his hair. He looked peaceful in sleep, younger than she could have imagined. As Harry and Neville tired, and the embers of the fire began to settle, she saw no point in waking him given they had plans early the next morning, and instead brought him a blanket and pillow. Tucking him in, she kissed his forehead and cast a warming charm over the man. Fighting a rash desire to try and snuggle in next to him, she headed to bed.


	30. Flash

Flash

Draco woke with the sun, languidly stretching a knot that had worked its way into his back. As he pulled up the blanket to shield his eyes, he didn't feel the silken blankets he was so familiar with, but rather a fluffy, thick duvet that had been wrapped around him. Opening a single eye, he didn't see the familiar emerald drapes of his bed. Sitting up slightly, he could smell chocolate and the faint explosives of wizarding snap. He had fallen asleep on her sofa, and while he would have been embarrassed, he couldn't help but smile at the effort she'd made to keep him comfortable as he flicked away the warming charm that was still running strong. As he rubbed his back, the door to Hermione's room opened quietly, and an endearingly mussed girl walked out, dressed in a white long-sleeved shirt and a pair of cotton maroon sweatpants he found curiously enticing on her. Gryffindor colours had always seemed overzealously loud, but her obvious comfort made him relax back into the cushion behind him. She sat delicately at the edge of the sofa; her features marred with a delicate gleam of nervousness.

As he said hello, she squeaked it back, before whispering an explanation, "We didn't kidnap you, I promise. You just fell asleep while we played scrabble, and I had to go to bed, so I got you some blankets and pillows and…"

Grinning at her bashful babbling, he wrapped his arm around her waist and affectionately pulled her toward him until she lay beside him. While the sofa was cosy, it wasn't large, and she was alluringly close to him. Once he had thrown the feather-stuffed duvet she clearly favoured over the two of them, he wrapped his arm around her ribs and cuddled her close. She smelled better than ever, a mixture of fresh laundry, her shampoo and a soothing trace of something he was coming to know as her.

"Is this okay?"

She nodded into him, and he saw her eyelids flicker shut as she relaxed into him. He hadn't been able to hold her like this since the hospital wing, and he was immeasurably grateful to have her back against him, especially given she was conscious. It felt less urgent, and he was better able to consider how it made him feel. _Protective_. She was so small; her feet having come to rest just below his knees as her head settled into the crook of his neck. Fragile too. She hadn't gained weight, he could feel every rib against his hand, but he had seen the effort she had exerted since their conversation, he had been so proud of her. They would get there, eventually, he knew. _Safe_. Even though it might be his arms around her, she never failed to make him feel she had his back. He couldn't think of anyone else he'd prefer to defend him, whose promises he'd place such faith in. He couldn't put his finger on how she had managed it, but he trusted her. He trusted her to be there, to understand, to care. She allowed him to be secure in his vulnerability. _Something else too. Happy_. She trusted him, someone who had been part of so many awful things in her life, and seemed content to lie in his arms. Her belief in him, her willingness to extend another chance to him when no one else had, on either side, made him feel good. Having gotten to know her, she had become much more than the only option. She had become a companion he sought out, whose opinions he valued, whose habits made him smile. She made him happy, and looking down at her now, he hoped she felt the same. He couldn't give this up, not now he was experiencing her, not now he knew what it felt like to have her in his life.

They were pulled from what had been one of the most satisfying morning naps of his life by a raucous stirring from behind her door, signalling that Harry had finally woken. Draco was shocked and relieved when instead of placing distance between them, she wriggled closer to him for a moment before groaning. He knew why. They had big plans today: furniture shopping. As he felt her lips press lightly against his neck, he took the initiative and told her to meet him in the Headmistress' office in an hour, returning her kisses within her delightful curls before reluctantly pulling himself away. Thankful for the loose trousers he'd pulled on the previous evening, he made his way to the Slytherin dormitories while she rushed to take a shower.

She was already standing by the fire when he arrived to the office, of course. She looked effortlessly lovely, and he shot a pre-emptive glare at his Godfather before he could start another strange conversation. Today was not going to be about anyone else. She wore a camel coloured belted coat, that felt like cashmere when he brushed his arm against her, with a hint of a navy jumper beneath. Her jeans clung to her legs as always, and she had gained a few inches of height thanks to a pair of ankle boots with a thin heel. While he much preferred revelling in her smallness, he had a feeling that she spent as little time out in the world as possible, and he suspected she felt more confident than she would without the height advantage.

As they stepped through the green flames into The Leaky Cauldron, he quickly realised that she was unaccustomed to Floo travel. Stumbling out of the hearth in a blitz of coughing and soot, she looked thoroughly uncomfortable. Stepping out cleanly himself, he supposed she likely hadn't had much practice, and couldn't help but grin a little at her discomfited dishevelment. A quick cleansing charm and she was restored entirely, before she spotted Williamson nursing a butterbeer by the bar. The pub had changed little during the war, it remained shadowy and shabby, dark table tops still sticky with years of abuse, business flowing and the familiar figure of Tom occupied pulling pints of mead. As Hermione's warm greeting was met with a lukewarm reception, and her eyes darkened with a familiar shadow of guilt, Malfoy fought the urge to inform her that the Auror had no wife or children, and she wasn't dragging him away from anything particularly special on Boxing Day.

"Williamson, have you thanked Hermione for the thoughtful Christmas present? I'm sure you know some single player card games after all."

Glaring at one another, Hermione pushed her arm between the two wizards engaged in an aggressive face off not two minutes after they had arrived. She didn't need any sincere thanks for the gift, and while she appreciated Malfoy's protectiveness, it was only going to make the day more difficult. As the tension gradually dispelled, she took the arm Draco offered as they walked toward Diagon Alley. He had mentioned a few shops she had previously never taken notice of, and after having seen his drawings and plans for the house, she had every faith in his selections.

Stepping into the street, however, it quickly became clear that they had forgotten about something rather important: the wizarding world were far from cognisant of their friendship, and her recognisable face and status combined with his family's well documented fall from grace made a storm that they had failed to anticipate. At first, it was Auror Williamson pushing people away from her who wanted to touch her, to speak to her, to ask her for help, to thank her. She had experienced this the last time she had ventured out with Harry over the Summer, and was now reminded of why she had taken to the practice of owl ordering anything she needed. It didn't take long, however, for the situation to escalate as their fellow shoppers realised who had her arm. They had barely made it past Eeylop's Owl Emporium when the crowd began to swell with anger and confusion. The Auror cast a shield over the two of them as he continued to clear the way, but it did nothing to mask the comments being shouted toward them.

"Miss Granger, come here, we won't let him hurt you… Get away from her, Death Eater scum!... Oi, aren't you an Auror? Do something!"

As a wizard tried to pull Hermione away from the two men, in what she hoped was a rescue attempt as opposed to anything more sinister, Draco pulled her back toward him and drew his arms around her properly. His eyes were wide and anxious, he couldn't believe he hadn't considered the reaction of others in all of his planning. The shouts were bad enough: the crowd was quickly becoming a mob demanding he be taken to Azkaban and be kissed, they were convinced he had harmed the girl who was shaking in his arms, and he couldn't think of a single reason for them to believe otherwise. He had been so naïve, she made him feel so normal, so acceptable that he'd forgotten it didn't apply beyond the sanctuary she provided. Finally, sensing Williamson's failure to make a path down the Alley on his own, he grasped her hand and they ran forward as fast as they could, until they reached the well-worn door of Flourish and Blotts.

As the door rang shut, the manager locked the door. While Williamson sent word to the Ministry, the two of them were ushered back into the more remote aisles of the shop away from the large windows. Hermione couldn't catch her breath, it was everything she had been scared about, and so much worse. She sank to the floor, hitting the polished pine boards with an audible bump. As the shopkeeper went to prepare her a cup of sweet tea to calm her nerves, Draco sat in front of her, taking her hands and speaking slowly and calmly: _they were safe in the bookshop, they could stay for as long as they needed, they were going to have a good day_. He was kicking himself mentally, he should have predicted this, he should have protected her. Passing her the cup of tea, he spotted the slight tremble of her wrist, and reached forward to help support the china as she sipped.

"Miss Granger," came the strong tone of the Auror, "We will have more Aurors to clear the street here soon. The Prophet are outside, with cameras. We will move them on, but I can't be sure they didn't get a picture, and I did see a flash bulb go off as we walked. We will ban the publication, of course, but expect some rumours."

Draco took the cup, and set it down on the shelf next to her, ignoring her scandalised expression at the proximity of the priceless books and sugar. "If they see us go furniture shopping, the rumours won't be contained to unpublished whispers. The Ministry won't be able to do anything to stop them."

Finally, Hermione spoke, her bottom lip pushed out slightly in what was a despondent pout, "It'd ruin the surprise for Harry, we'd have to explain and then he'd know. What about Muggle shops?"

Both the Auror and Malfoy knew that now the press had the scent, they would be just as likely to follow them around Muggle London. A look passed between the two men; both knew that today was close enough to over. "Or maybe it's time for us to do things the Malfoy way. My mother furnished the Manor without ever leaving the comfort of her armchair. We can do the same. Now, we are not allowing those people to ruin our day. Will you allow me to take you to lunch?"

She didn't seem entirely sure, though he suspected that was more to do with the idea of doing anything in the same manner as his parents had than his invitation to lunch, and as soon as Dawlish and Gore succeeded in repelling the crowd and confiscating the camera from a screeching Prophet journalist, they thanked the manager for his hospitality, and slipped into an backstreet she had never noticed before. Guided through the near darkness by his hand around her waist, she stumbled over the cobbles until he stopped before a pair of thick plum doors. Tapping his wand on the frame, they swung open, and they stepped into an immaculate foyer dressed in marble, crystal and regal boysenberry fabrics. A slender, lightly tanned man stepped forward; a maître d'hôtel dressed in a neatly tailored set of purple dress robes.

"Mr. Malfoy, Miss Granger. Welcome to Papavero. Would it be a table for the three of you?" The man asked with a clipped received pronunciation tone that made him seem somewhat aloof.

The restaurant was evidently not acquainted with the idea of walk ins, and she wasn't sure whether it was their sense of professionalism, the Malfoy name or their recognition of her that ensured they were smoothly whisked toward a table set with crisp white linen, gleaming wine glasses and goblin wrought cutlery. She wasn't too sure she minded, so relieved she was in being hidden away from the public eye. Her coat disappeared and a small stool took the weight of her bag, and before she quite knew what was happening, she was sat comfortably opposite Draco. Williamson seemed to have waited outside, and for that she was immensely grateful. The last thing she wanted was his snide remarks and uncomfortable presence over lunch. Mentally scolding herself for her unnatural dislike of her security detail, her trail of thought was interrupted as her companion passed her the menu. Evidently, they had expected him to order for her, something she would have much preferred.

"I've chosen a few things, but if there is anything you see that particularly interests you, then please tell me."

Immediately pressing the menu back into his hands without a second glance, he set it aside. He hadn't been sure of the best path, and was glad he had been brave enough to make the decisions: she had almost shrunk away from him once she realised it was inherently food oriented, and he kicked himself with what an uncomfortable position he had put her in. Not just in the Alley, but with the food too. He hoped he had picked well, and endeavoured to distract her for as long as he could.

"So, was it Rita Skeeter's scathing biography then?" When she looked puzzled, he smiled before continuing, "I'm just curious as to how you came to be so angry with Dumbledore. Not that I disagree with your assessment, you're delightful when you give your emotions energy."

The most delicious blush warmed her cheeks, "I began to trust him less in our fifth year, I suppose. He was ignoring Harry, and it meant he questioned his decision making, it isolated him into believing he was the only one who could do anything. That led us to the Ministry, where Harry's Godfather was killed." She nodded as Draco asked if that was Sirius Black. "And then, the year after, he finally brought Harry into the fold, and still failed to give him the pertinent information at every turn. We had no idea what we were looking for so much of the time last year, and we had an alternative mission he sent to us hidden within the meaning of a children's book. I did all of the research again, from scratch, when he could have given us a huge head start. The number of times we almost died; the things we could have avoided had we known better. Harry so very nearly didn't make it to fight the final battle. I can't forgive him for that, being elusive when so much was at stake. He thought Harry was going to die, and didn't warn him, didn't try and help avoid that. He just forced me to drag him to that end, unaware."

"He didn't give you the list of horcruxes, or at least ideas as to what they might be or clues to their locations?" He shook his head with disbelief.

"Not a thing. There are other things too, more personal. You saw the way Harry reacts to Christmas presents?"

Draco nodded, "It's like he's never had them before, like he thinks someone will take them away. It's strange. His family, the Potters, they're well off you know. While my family disapproved of them, I get the impression that they were generally good people too. Did they celebrate the more traditional holidays instead?"

"No." Sighing, she lowered her voice, "Harry grew up with his mother's sister and her family. They abhor magic, and mistreated him. He didn't know who he was, or who his parents were, until Hogwarts. It's his story to tell, but I don't think he received any gifts before school. Dumbledore put him into their care, without bothering to check what they were like because of the blood wards he set up there. There were so many other options, to someone as powerful as that man, and yet he left him to live there."

Draco was shocked. As a child, even he had been excited to make the acquaintance of the famous Harry Potter. He had seen him as an aspirational friend to have, and had been quite upset when he had been so publicly rejected. He had imagined the boy to have enjoyed a similar childhood, have much in common, and had seen plenty to gain through a relationship. Selfish, of course, but now he had to concede it was for the best that hadn't worked out. Not only would his father have exploited that, it sounded like Potter had almost nothing in common with himself, except perhaps the beatings. Any witch or wizard, allegiance be damned, would have been horrified to know that the boy had been placed in that situation.

"Why isn't Potter angrier at him? He's never been one to hold it in."

Their food arrived at that moment, delaying the answer. The waiter unveiled a large bowl of risotto, with the freshest white crab she had ever seen and the tantalising aroma of a browned sage butter. It looked rich, delicious and thoroughly comforting. They were served a small dish of radish and artichoke salad, and the waiter set down a steaming loaf of sliced ciabatta drizzled in shallot oil. It made her think of the last trip she had made with her parents, to Sorrento. Shaking her head, ridding herself of the memory, she continued.

"Harry has had so few people in his life overall, and even fewer who have shown any bit of care and love for him. To so many, he's been a convenient martyr to put their hopes in. To others, someone who needs to die, or someone who has lost their mind. It means that when people who have shown him a degree of love treat him poorly, he tends to accept it, because the last thing he wants is to lose them. Dumbledore is wise enough to know that, and cruel enough to take advantage."

She reddened at the harshness of her words, as though she realised who she was sitting with and where. She distracted herself by taking a sip of iced water. Draco looked at the girl, and desperately crushed down the question he so dearly wanted to know the answer to. _What sort of love did she have for Potter?_ He wasn't convinced it was romantic, not after yesterday, not after her explanation of the man's upbringing, but if he was so emotionally stunted and he made an advance, would she go along with it simply to avoid hurting him? Not for the first time, he cursed Dumbledore.

"He offered me sanctuary, that night on the Astronomy Tower." Potter had told her, of course, "What do you think would have happened? Had I taken it?"

She paused for a moment, and he watched the now familiar flick of her eyes as she weighed up the alternative paths, finding beauty in the workings of her mind. "I think you would have survived the war, in a safe house or on the run. Dumbledore was dying anyway; he couldn't have enforced your protection all year. I… I don't think your parents would have survived the night."

There it was. The truth. He had known that the old man was weakened, he could tell from that night on the tower and the few things he'd heard from people back at the Manor. She was right, he knew his parents would die if he had taken the old man's help. As his mind began to pursue all of the terrible ways in which he would have lost his parents, he directed the conversation to reach more comfortable ground as they finished their meal; as they spoke excitedly of arithmancy, Wizengamot politics and his final revision of the notes on the Moonseed vaccine. It struck him, as it always did, just how easy it was to be with her. She made life easier, just in her presence. Furtively looking around them, the first time he had ever been less than confident in the longstanding reputation of confidentiality the restaurant held, he took her hand in his across the table. His stomach was pulsing, nervous in the knowledge that once the words were out of his mouth, there was no chance of retrieving them without consequence. If she said no, if he had misjudged things, it would be painful, perhaps too painful to bear.

"Things are different now. I don't want this to be the only time we get lunch together. Just us, not always at Hogwarts. Or drink Butterbeer together, or visit new places, just the two of us. I'd like there to be an element of our… our relationship that is just for the two of us. The library remains ours, of course, but I want something more." Trying in vain to read her expression, he had no choice but to continue, flustered and slightly frustrated at her once in a lifetime failure to interrupt, "I'd like you to be my girlfriend. In a serious way, exclusively, as a partner. After school too. I can't and won't force you, and I'm trying not to take over, but I really…"

Finally, the interruption he craved came, her voice soft and confident, "I'd like that. I'd like to be your girlfriend, Draco."


	31. Pollution

Pollution

The Ministry was quiet, with the majority of workers having taken full advantage of the lighter workload to spend time with their families. What was left was a skeleton crew, made up largely of those staff who had no one to go back to at Christmas. After the incident in Diagon Alley, she was grateful for the sense of tranquillity throughout the building, and made polite chatter with a dishevelled man she vaguely recognised as Ludo Bagman in the lift as she made her way to Kingsley's office. _The Ministry must be desperate if they were hiring him_. Waving goodbye, she walked out into Basement Level One. The floor was silent, though she noted the firmly closed door of Amos Diggory as she wandered past. He had not been dismissed, not yet, he was useful to observe: they had to get a full and frank understanding of the allegiances of those around them, it would be valuable intelligence, and she was determined to weed out anyone seeking to restore any of the ideals they had rid the world of so recently, and wouldn't hesitate to relegate them so deep within the bowels of the building they'd never find the Minister's office again. She just hoped that there would be some staff left at the end. Kingsley opened the door to her knock, and greeted her warmly with a hug. He thanked her for the gift she had sent, and gave her a small package, a bottle bag and card.

After a few minutes catching up and agreeing the need to meet weekly until she began full time, Kingsley asked the inevitable question, "Where do we start?"

She couldn't help but laugh, it was an almost impossible question. "I need to understand what the Ministry looks like now. What the departments are, who is running them – both de facto and de jure. We need to have allies in every office, and I'd like to know who we're dealing with until we can put them there at the very least."

As an elf popped into the office to serve coffee, Kingsley paused to allow her to take a journal and quill from her bag before he began to explain, "The Department of Magical Law Enforcement lacks a head altogether, and now Harry doesn't want the job I need your recommendation. It's too important a position, and now the Auror Office reports directly to that role, we can't leave it unfilled for another year."

"I have someone in mind actually, I'm happy to make a quiet approach to them."

He nodded, relieved that she had a potential candidate, as he had wracked his brain for options and was getting desperate, "Within that department, we have the Office for the Detection and Confiscation of Counterfeit Defensive Spells and Protective Objects. It used to be quiet, but with the war and the confiscation of Death Eater property, they're overrun. People are taking advantage of fear, and since Arthur left it's been passed over to Ludo Bagman." Seeing the quirk of her eyebrow, he continued, "I know… but we didn't have anyone."

"The Muggle Studies curriculum at Hogwarts needs to change, and it needs to be delivered by someone qualified. Was Arthur good at his job?" As he nodded, she finished, "So increase the salary on offer, and poach him back. That will help things at Hogwarts and get someone who is ultimately a trustworthy official back in the Ministry."

She was rapidly taking notes now, as he moved on, "Misuse of Muggle Artefacts got shut down during the war, we haven't managed to re-establish it. With so many offensive articles out there to target Muggles, we need it back up and running. I'd like to put Arthur's old assistant, Septimius Perkins, in as head. He's competent, and I think he would thrive with responsibility. Improper Use of Magic is under Mafalda Hopkirk. You might want to make your peace with her, she got tortured after your Polyjuice jolly last year, and she's still a bit shaken. She's very good at her job, but not robust enough to stand up to pressure should it come. We might want to reinforce that office."

Hermione bowed her head, cheeks ablaze with embarrassment. She had known at the time that they were putting three people in mortal danger, and yet she had done nothing to mitigate their potential punishments. She had hoped, in the little time she had dedicated to thinking about it, that their disguises falling away would be sufficient to save them. Now, removed from the heat of war, she knew that had been immature. The Death Eaters were never going to take a chance on losing valuable information. She would seek out Ms. Hopkirk as quickly as she could.

"Percy Weasley would see it as a demotion, I assume? Well, you have a field of graduates coming out of Hogwarts this year. Perhaps someone like Ernie Macmillan would be a good assistant. Judicious, fair minded, hardworking, and he certainly came into his own last year."

Kingsley nodded, and continued, "The Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes is largely intact. Arnold Peasegood is in charge, and he's got it in hand. As for whether he's trustworthy, I'm not convinced. He was appointed by Scrimgeour and has retained the post continuously. There are five offices within, and it might be better to gain control by managing the appointments there as opposed to removing Arnold."

"I'd like to give the Muggle Liaison Office status within international relations. Beyond that, I think the other offices can eventually be merged into task forces that operate as complete units within the Department. They work together so much anyway; it'd be more efficient in terms of paperwork and response times. If we do that, and select leaders within each team, that will keep Peasegood busy enough with logistics to distract from any scheming and allow us more monitoring opportunities."

As they continued talking through the leadership of every department, Kingsley felt a wave of relief roll over him. He had been so unsure of this alliance, despite everything he knew about Hermione Granger flying in the face of those concerns, but she was ready. She was more than ready to help him put the Ministry to rights, and for the first time since stepping into the role, he felt like it was possible, that they were on the very beginnings of the correct path. As he passed her a list of all of the hereditary Wizengamot seats, and details on each sitting member, he took a deep breath. He had some news for her.

"Hermione, I wanted to tell you before it's in the Prophet. Blaise Zabini will go to trial in March, I want you to have time to prepare and be ready for it, because you know what his legal advocate is like. I'm sorry."

She smiled at him, trying in vain to disguise the shivers that seized her arms. She felt icy cold, and wanted to melt into the chair that held her and disappear. As if he sensed her discomfort, Kingsley moved around the desk to sit beside her on the empty chair, and took her hand in his. Playfully warming it up between his palms, his presence was reassuring, and while she refused his offer to get Harry, she did take his arm to return to the Floo back to Hogwarts. It had been a lot to digest. Saying goodbye, he waited until she disappeared through the emerald flames, before returning to his lonely office.

As she reached her rooms, she felt exhausted. The buzz of ideas in her head, her excitement for the challenges ahead, the joyful edge of everything she had learned was dampened by the knowledge of the trial. Her low mood was lifted a little as she stepped into the living room, finding Neville pretending to read a new Herbology text while eavesdropping on what seemed to be coming from her room. Walking past him, she peeked into the room only to find Draco and Harry there together.

"How can you not know where you left your gloves?"

"Winky took them at the Hospital Wing, when you refused to get changed. I don't know where she'd tidy them away to."

"I wasn't the one who stunk! That drunk house elf? Merlin, we'll never find them."

Hermione laughed, walking over to Harry's bedside drawer and pulling it open to reveal freshly waxed Quidditch gloves. Throwing them toward him, he grinned at her. As she hung up her coat, Draco asked how the meeting with Kingsley had gone.

"It was okay. We'll meet every week from now on, there's a lot to do. He… he let me know the trial will start in March."

Both knew precisely which court case she was referring to. Draco set aside his broom to take her hand softly in his, squeezing it reassuringly while Harry enveloped her in a hug. As she realised they intended to put off Quidditch to another time, she shooed them out toward the door insisting she was tired and wanted some peace and quiet. Once they had left, after several reassurances she would be fine, she stepped back into the lounge and took up the armchair while Neville sat with a new Herbology journal and a pot of tea. He poured her one, and nudged the brown sugar cubes toward her knowingly. They chatted for a while, laughing at the two former enemies bonding and playing Quidditch together. She was relieved Neville had seen it too, or she might have thought she was hallucinating. The two did have a lot of interests in common, and she could see how in another lifetime, they would actually get on well. She knew they were both making a substantial effort, and that much of that was due to their relationship with her, and for that she was appreciative. It didn't stop it being more than a little strange.

Clutching her cup of sweet tea close to her chest as she snuggled into the armchair, she turned to her companion, "Neville, last year, how did you manage it all? The Carrows, Dumbledore's Army, working things out with Aberforth?"

Neville considered her before answering, "Didn't have much of a choice other than to handle it. The Carrows, Hermione, they were brutal. It was obvious from the start: they inspected the train as soon as it left the station. Looking for you three, largely, they seemed convinced you wouldn't be able to stay away from school. They instilled terror from the start. Some first year lost their cat, and they killed it after she asked for help looking for it. It reminded me of losing Trevor on our first ride to Hogwarts, and how different it had been. You helped me, and we found him, and I absolutely believed everything would be okay. I wanted to be you, like you, and be the person who made sure they had hope. It all started from there. Even though I was obviously unpopular with them, I'm a Pureblood, and that protected me for a while. I found Luna and Ginny, and reactivated the Galleons you charmed and began to plan the first night back."

"They killed a cat?" Hermione exclaimed.

Neville grinned wryly, "Trust that to be the bit you find shocking. You'd have given them such a run around. That was only the start. They revived Umbridge's Inquisitorial Squad immediately, and they were using unforgivables on students. Filch was happy, for once, he got to string students up in the dungeons by their toes for misbehaving. There weren't any limits, unless Snape was involved. He directed people to Hagrid for detentions as much as possible, I suppose I should have noticed that. We painted anti-Voldemort slogans around the school, Chamber of Secrets style; answered back, broke students out of detention, patched people up as we could. After Luna got taken, things got more brutal. They tortured Michael, badly, he almost died. I couldn't risk students anymore, so I set up the Room of Requirement to hide people, and slowly we started disappearing people faster than they could. A tactical retreat was the only thing I could do to keep people safe, while we waited for instructions from you."

"What if we hadn't made it? What would you have done?"

"We were training students as they recovered, to defend themselves, but also in offensive spells. We had contact with some of the Order to help, and slowly we would have released students in pairs, with their galleons, to take out Death Eaters until we had a more coherent plan in play. Krum helped us find safe houses abroad for the younger students, too young to fight."

Hermione considered the man before her. Neville had changed so much, grown more than any of them. He had never turned his back on his ideals, even when he could have survived and perhaps even thrived under Death Eater rule. No one would have blamed him; he had no literal skin in the game. Yet he had been tortured, he had risked the only family he had left, he had been willing to lose his life for the world he believed in, for people like her. He had developed the audacity to be unhindered by setbacks, to walk against the prevailing wind with a strong back and long stride, to bring mettle and strategy to the hope he held in the face of opposition. He had become a General in a war that shouldn't have been his to fight.

"Neville. I want you to consider taking the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement position. I know Kingsley offered it to Harry, but having heard all of this, I know you're the right man for the job. What do you think?"

Laughing, Neville quietened when he saw the serious expression on her face. She wasn't joking, and suddenly he felt overwhelmed, "Don't you think Kingsley would prefer it was someone else?"

"I'll speak to him if you'd like the position, but I think he will agree that it's the best choice. You have more experience than anyone else, you're clearly a good strategist, you aren't shy of paperwork unlike every other Auror in the place, as much as I hate to admit it – you have the blood status to unite what is a broken department. And I trust you. I want you on my team, Neville."

"Hermione, I'm always going to be on your team. If you can clear it with Kingsley, I'm yours." Chuckling, he ushered her over to the sofa and they finished the pot of tea reading together on the sofa until she fell into an exhausted nap against her new DMLE head.

While the two heads caught up on much needed sleep, Harry and Draco were tailing one another through the air enjoying the practice that Hermione's Christmas gift offered. It was lightning fast, and forced them into sharp manoeuvres. While Draco was by no means an untalented player, he was outpaced and outmatched by Harry, and he hovered while watching Harry launch into a spectacular dive. There was no doubt that he was one of the best players Britain had seen, and Draco made a mental note to purchase season tickets for Puddlemere United. He idly considered whether he could convince Granger to go, she'd look beautiful in navy and gold, and he was convinced he could find ways to keep her interested. _Or at least make up for the boredom._ Shaking the thoughts from his mind, he knew she wasn't ready and, given the Zabini incident, he would be going at her pace. It was too late for Potter to play in the World Cup this Summer, selection already being complete, but he had no doubt he'd make the squad next time.

As the two landed on the pitch, the snitch captured for a final time, they made their way to the showers. Through the divider, Malfoy asked the man to relay the story of how he had met Hermione.

"On the train, initially, she introduced herself when she went looking for Neville's toad. Ron hated her, and we weren't that open to being friends with her. She overheard some nasty comment he made about her on Halloween, and ran off to the toilets where the troll was also hiding. So, we had to go and rescue her, it was our fault she was there. She's been rescuing us ever since."

Stepping out of the showers, towels wrapped around them, they chatted casually as they got changed until Harry turned to him with a serious expression on his face, "Malfoy, the trial is going to be bad isn't it? You know Zabini. I want to know what to expect."

Malfoy sat down on the bench, as he pulled his shirt on. Sighing, he thought back to the friend Zabini had once been. It was true, he did know as much as anyone could know about him. _And he still hadn't stopped him_. The news that Zabini was going to trial wasn't surprising, nor the long wait until it went ahead, ultimately it was another way he could torment her.

Sighing, he set about explaining, "Zabini isn't a Death Eater. He's worse, because as dangerous as the Dark Lord's followers are, they did things for tangible reasons… reasons that aren't sufficient, I know, but reasons all the same. He's not like that. He's driven by something within, a need to hurt. She's not the first one he's gone after. He targets vulnerable girls, and he works out what their greatest weaknesses are, and he preys upon them until he builds up to a final act. Acts that have gotten more severe over time, especially last year. With the Carrows, he had complete freedom to intimidate and hurt without facing any questions. Snape had always kept him in check as much as he could, but we didn't do enough. I know that now. The trial is a final opportunity to humiliate her, to hurt her, maybe to kill her. I don't know what he wants with her, I don't think like him. But Potter, that day in the Shrieking Shack? I saw what he intended to do, and she wouldn't have survived."

Harry shivered in response, "She's never told me what happened, and I don't want to put her through having to relive it more than she already does. You know from the infirmary that she has nightmares, and they've gotten even worse since then. She's haunted by whatever he did, and I need to know what to prepare for. I need to know what happened there. You could show me."

Draco paused. It was not something he had thought the man would ask. Not only was it incredibly intimate to view someone's memories, it was without Hermione's knowledge and he didn't want to betray her confidence. Beyond that, if he showed Potter his memory, he would know they'd tampered with Zabini's mind, something that if discovered would cast doubt on the entire incident and could lead to him being acquitted. _He couldn't show him_.

"Malfoy, I know we don't have the best of pasts, but I respect that you're in her life now. That comes with a responsibility to take care of her, don't make the mistake I did. I relied on her too much, didn't think about her own mental health while she prioritised mine. We need to take care of her, protect her, keep her safe. I can't do that unless I know what I'm protecting her from. You're not on your own, taking care of her. She's the only person I trust without question. I can't lose her."

_Guilted by Potter. Damn it_. "If we do this, I'm going to tell her you know, and no matter how angry what you see makes you, you can't reveal it to anyone. I'm not above having you swear an unbreakable vow." Harry nodded, and Malfoy understood he wouldn't betray their secret. He would, however, be telling Hermione immediately afterwards. Making eye contact, he allowed Potter to raise his wand toward him and speak the fateful word.

"Legilimens."

Harry felt funnelled down a specific path: as though a steel wall restricted every inch of movement within Malfoy's mind. First, he found himself in the toilets of the Three Broomsticks, clean that the ones he knew. Looking up, he saw Hermione, pinned up against the wall with Zabini's hand squeezing tightly around her neck as she gasped for breath. Forgetting this was a memory, he launched himself toward Zabini only to be beaten to it by Malfoy who had ran into the room and torn him off her by his collar and slammed him face first into the ground. The man clearly had a broken nose, and Malfoy instructed Hermione to leave after checking she wasn't too injured. After she fled, Harry realised this had to be the day she ran off from Neville. It made more sense now, as his new ally stamped on Zabini's hands until they crunched under the ferocity of his boots. Wincing at the noise, there was an ethereal shift in the air, and he was in the Hospital Wing. This time, it wasn't Hermione who was there, but rather Zabini immobilised in the bed. Hermione was standing beside him, Malfoy was healing her neck, and then they exchanged words.

'You threw him on the floor.' 'He tore at your neck.' 'You broke his hands.' 'He throttled you.' He felt like he was at a tennis match, as the two batted whispers back and forth. 'He took food from you,' and the faint recollection, someone else's memory of Zabini charming food from her plate at the Slug Club. _He knew something had been going on with her plate. He'd thought it was her doing it_. Then the crunch of knuckles breaking under Malfoy's determined revenge on Hermione's behalf, the deliverance of a punishment. The closeness of their escape, under the cloak, pressed tightly together. _She brushed against his crotch; I get it. Too much detail. _Malfoy's rush of thought to protect her if they got caught. Another misty shift in atmosphere took them to Potions class, where he saw himself disappear into the cupboard. His mouth dropped as he witnessed Malfoy hold Hermione on the stool, his arms around her waist, allowing him to seek his own revenge on Zabini. Then she called herself a Mudblood, and Harry felt the sense of guilt and deep-rooted shame that seized Malfoy as he realised he was the one to teach her that. _He cared, he felt genuine remorse._

Another shift in the atmosphere, and he was in an unfamiliar classroom, a telephone sat on the table. Pansy Parkinson, Zabini and Malfoy were being taught how to use it by Hermione. Zabini loitered behind her, was too close to her, muttering in her ear. He knew as soon as Malfoy caught the tears in her eyes, and then clocked the hand pushed up her skirt and on her bum. As he got up to throw Zabini off, Hermione sobbed and Harry instinctively knew she had been violated. He had no sympathy as Malfoy piled his fists into that monster, was pleased in a way he'd never known since he Crucio'd Bellatrix all those years ago when Malfoy made to strangle the grinning man… the scene shifted, and finally, he knew it was the Shack. Hermione was blurred out, her body's modesty provided by the memory's owner, but Harry knew what Zabini had done. He watched it all, even when he wanted to pull his own eyes out, from Malfoy's entrance onwards. He retched as he saw what Zabini had done from his own mind, what he'd intended to do to her. Malfoy picked her up, wrapped her in his robe, protected her, comforted her, loved her. _Love_. _When had that happened? When amongst the countless times he had protected Hermione had he fallen for her?_

Finally withdrawn from Malfoy's head, he slumped back on the bench, exhausted and sickened by what he had seen. Zabini had tormented her relentlessly, he knew it had been bad, but he hadn't comprehended the depths of the depravity of the man. And he was going to receive another opportunity to see her? To hurt her? It couldn't happen. Somehow, he determined it wouldn't happen. It was too much, and to top it all off, Malfoy and Hermione. He hadn't even known some of the things he'd witnessed had happened. He certainly hadn't been there to help her himself. The respect Malfoy held for her, after everything, the shame at how he'd treated her. It was genuine. Everything was genuine. Being her boyfriend was one thing, but this? Malfoy cared for her, he liked her. More than a passing fancy. He wanted her in a way he himself couldn't replicate, and he was bound to lose her to him. Harry didn't want to imagine a day without her, ever. He didn't want to be relegated to a friend who she had lunch with once in a while. They'd committed to raise Teddy together, and he couldn't help but trust her to uphold that, despite everything he now knew. _But was he eradicating any chance she had of a husband? Of a family of her own? A better family than him? How could he do that to her?_

Despite everything Harry had seen, the genuine care, then affection and finally love he had felt laced through every memory, jealousy overwhelmed him. "Nothing has changed. You live your life, taking what you want, with no care for the fallout. You have done so much damage to everyone around you. People have died. And it doesn't affect you at all. You continue taking things, stealing people, with no concern of the consequences."

Malfoy rose to his feet in shock, he'd shared those memories with him and this was how the boy responded? "Really Potter? I'd do a lot of things differently. Most of all, I'd find her sooner, so I could love her for longer."

Neither man broke the eye contact, or the silence. The two shared a moment to acknowledge this, an absolute truth had been spoken. Draco Malfoy loved Hermione Granger. That wasn't to say that Harry didn't, but as the words hung in the air, there was also an unspoken acknowledgement that this was a passionate love_. An intimate love. _Hermione_._ He had no doubt that Malfoy would pursue her. He was not going to settle in silently waiting for her to realise the depth of his feelings for her. He was not going to pass over something as strong as love. He would try and steal her away from him, he would seize the comfort the two friends shared for himself. A time would come, whether it was Malfoy or not, that he would not hold her close in the darkness anymore. A time would come where he would be alone. Harry slumped to the floor.

"I understand the two of you are close, and that closeness is as important for her as it is for you. I will not take that comfort from her. Regardless of what that means for me, I won't."

The absolute truth felt polluted. Harry couldn't bring himself to look at him.

"Get out."


	32. Fireworks

Fireworks

She felt long, strong arms beneath her arms, pulling her back from sleep. For a moment, she thought to struggle, but as she caught the familiar scent of spiced frankincense that replaced the sweet herbs she knew to be Neville, she settled into the crook of his neck as he cradled her. Vaguely aware they were moving, her exhaustion hit again, and she wasn't sure how much time had passed when she finally opened her eyes to find herself cuddled into Draco's chest in the window seat of her room. He seemed far away, and she wasn't sure whether that was because of the enduring mist of sleep or if something had happened. As he felt her stir, he tore his eyes from the dark horizon and absentmindedly brought his hand up to stroke the hair he had been breathing in as she slept. His legs were numb from too much time spent in the same position, his eyes were tired from his attempts to look out through the darkness outside, and his heart was heavy from the argument with Potter. Not because he liked the man, not particularly, though they had admittedly been getting on well over Christmas. It was because he knew that it would hurt the little witch he held in his arms if they couldn't come to an understanding.

Hermione's hooded eyes were drooping slightly, and while he knew she was more than ready for bed, they had to have a conversation before that happened. She knew it too, as she murmured, "What's wrong?"

He curled a tendril of her hair over his finger, taking a breath, and then explained that Harry had seen the memories as soothingly as possible. He hated himself for doing this to her, hated himself for making the nightmares worse tonight, hated that he wouldn't be there to hold her. Even as he assured her that Potter didn't see her in any of it, that he had obscured her image, that he saw just an idea of the crimes committed, told her that her friend hadn't judged her in the slightest, that her friend would always be there for her, he wasn't sure. _What if the argument they'd had meant Potter didn't come back, or worse, didn't take care of her when she inevitably had a night terror, didn't want to be her friend anymore? _He didn't tell her about the fight. He couldn't do it, not when he saw the tears. Wiping them away softly, his stomach dropped at the realisation that she had likely cried many times as a result of his past actions, times that Potter had likely been the one to comfort her. _He would fix this. He would make it right. He would ensure she was happy. _As he soothed her, he heard the door push open and knew that the man had not abandoned her. As Harry went directly to the bathroom, Draco kissed her forehead goodnight with a promise he'd see her again in the morning. _One night. One night, and if Potter didn't take care of her, he'd never leave her again, consequences be damned_.

As soon as the door swung shut, the other opened. Harry looked drained, his hair windswept and wild, and his eyes had a red rim that she knew meant he had been crying. Clutching her pyjamas, she ran into the bathroom and shut the door behind her. She couldn't breathe. Her lungs felt tight, as though someone was stamping on her chest hard enough that she couldn't breathe. She pulled her clothes off, as though it was the culprit for her absent breaths. _Overwhelmed_. _Shit. Can't breathe. Too much_. Harry was disappointed, sad, ashamed of her. He was disgusted by her, now he'd seen it all. _Rightly so_. Catching sight of herself in the bathroom mirror, she froze. She hadn't looked at herself, not really, since that night. She was disgusting: her skin broken, bruised, battered. Even now. Her eyes sank to her stomach, and her fingers followed. She hadn't hurt herself since, the pain exerted had been enough, but now? Looking at the skin there, she saw fat. She saw that she had failed to lose weight over Christmas, perhaps even gained a little. _Disgusting, fat pig. _His words echoed around her head as she pulled at her stomach, pulled at the scratches and the skin. And it was like she was back there, held up and tortured, and covered in his filth. She fell to the floor, sobbing and whimpering, never letting go of the skin held sharply between her nails. A barrage of painful memories were sweeping back, and she could feel the first prickling of blood emerging at the cuts she was burrowing her nails into. "No one will ever want you, stupid, stupid girl," she repeated like a mantra.

Harry heard the cries, and immediately ran to unlock the door. Pushing inside, the door bumped into something. Looking down, he saw Hermione, panting those awful words through her pained sobs. _Shit_. He pulled her into his arms, and gently placed her on the bed. His chest was tight, hardly able to breathe as he eased her fingers away from her abused stomach. There was blood, blood that he had caused. His hand shook around his wand as he healed the wounds as best he could, at the very least they would be clean. She was sobbing still, like a ragdoll lying prone as if lacking the spirit to even continue struggling to hurt herself. _She thinks no one will want her, because I pushed Malfoy away. She thinks no one will want her, she thinks I will scare everyone away, because Malfoy told her about our fight. That stupid, pointless reaction. Just as stupid as the Department of Mysteries. And now she thinks she has to choose. This is my fault. _His red eyes were tearing up again, as he pulled the thick cotton pyjama trousers over her thin legs, up over her hips so the waistband wouldn't irritate her injuries. Gently manoeuvring her arms, he pulled on her preferred long sleeve white shirt, and guided it over her head.

Finally, he got into bed beside her, and wrapped his arms around her so she settled into his body. She felt so small, so fragile, so vulnerable tucked into his chest. He had to explain. The thick duvet over the two of them, she felt cool against his chest, and he rubbed her back softly to provide as much comfort and warmth as he could. He buried his nose in her thick curls, and found a mixture of her own soft jasmine scent, mixed with something earthy and masculine. _Malfoy_. He should have taken a breath, after seeing the memories, he knew that. He'd been overwhelmed, and struck with a desire to find Hermione and hide her away forever from all of the monsters and threats out in the world. A subset of people that had, until recently, included the man showing him the memories. All the while, every memory he'd seen had a sense of another man wanting to protect her, growing in intensity. If Malfoy hid her away from the world, he'd lose his only friend, his sister. It seemed ludicrous now, as he watched over the girl in his arms. Not only would Hermione never consent to be hidden away, by either of them, but it didn't need to be so extreme. People had best friends; people had boyfriends. _But so_ _scared to lose her. _Now, she was sobbing into him after hurting herself again, for the first time in a month. Hurt herself because of his stupid fight with Malfoy. _Hurt herself because of him._

His voice was low, rhythmic as a chant, "I'm sorry, 'Mione, so sorry. Sorry for everything. I was just so angry at that bastard, for hurting you, and took it out on the wrong person. I don't ever, ever want to lose you. You're my sister, you're my best friend, you're the only person in the world I trust. I don't want him to steal you away, that's all. I don't want to be on my own, I'm so sorry for being selfish. I'll apologise to him, whatever will fix this. He cares, I just don't want you to forget that I care too. I want you to be loved, loved the way he does, I just don't want the way I love you to be pushed aside either. I want to protect you, I need to protect you, but not from love. I shouldn't have reacted like that. I just… I just don't want a time where I don't see you every day." He could feel Hermione shifting against his chest, and find his hands in hers. She held them as best she could, and as she drifted off to an exhausted sleep, he trusted it to be okay. He trusted her.

Apart from an awkwardly early visit from Draco the next morning, who came bursting into the room and was absurdly relieved for a man who found his girlfriend asleep in the arms of another man, the next few days passed well. Hermione wasn't clear on what had happened between the two, but she made effort to spend time with both: she had no intention of abandoning Harry, ever. She had no intention of passing up on Draco's interest in her either. By the time she had come out of the shower that morning, it was clear the two had had an awkward and necessary conversation, and the tension began to lift. The days passed in a pleasant blur of morning lie-ins, hours spent in the forgotten stacks of the library and the occasional foray into the restricted section, leisurely late lunches in the kitchen served by a vigilant Kreacher, and the blissful freedom of holding hands through the draughty corridors. Evenings had become raucous game nights, the four of them determined to acquire the taste for the violet gin that Kingsley had gifted Hermione.

The final afternoon of the year was spent in a contented pile on the sofa, Hermione's back resting against Harry as Draco casually massaged her calves while he played Wizarding Chess against Neville. Harry had quickly lost interest in the game, and had embarked on an ill-fated attempt to plait her unruly curls. It was comfortable, it was calm, it was right. Almost entirely focused on the game, Draco would occasionally top up her glass with the punch they had acquired from the elves, place a chaste kiss on her nose, and make a scathing comment about her hair putting up a better fight than the Dark Lord. Neville was keenly regaling his grandmother's reaction to the job offer Kingsley had sent to him, and they were laughing about the likely fatal underestimation of him many would make. Hermione couldn't remember ever having had such a peaceful afternoon. As Malfoy winced as the crunch of his King being crushed by Neville's Bishop echoed around the room, Hermione shot a look toward Neville. _It was time_.

"Right, now I've outmanoeuvred the Malfoy heir, again, I promised Dean we'd hang out before the feast. Coming, Harry? I hear he's ditched Ginny for good this time, he could do with someone who understands the impending storm."

Harry laughed, recognising a plan to leave the two lovers alone when he saw one, and said goodbye. It would take time, but he would grow comfortable with it. He had promised himself, he had promised her. The feast was the last place she'd be comfortable: food, crowds, noise. It was a shame, he'd always managed to miss it for one reason or another, but tonight he could enjoy it safe in the knowledge that Hermione wouldn't force herself to attend. He was grateful, though he was still hesitant to admit it, that Malfoy made it possible: she would have dragged herself through a feast, a crowd, the cold outside air and the sound of magical explosives for him, all the while hiding her fear and anxiety. It felt like the start of a team, for the first time.

As the door shut, Draco pulled Hermione into his lap and kissed her neck as he pulled the hair tie from her curls. While he told her it was because Potter had done an awful job, he much preferred her curls untamed. It suited her; despite the six years of hell he'd given her over his hair. Now he'd gotten to know her better, they reminded him of her spell work: powerful, a little boisterous despite her efforts to control them. He wrapped a protective arm around her stomach and held her for a few minutes, frowning as she flinched from his hand at the first contact. He knew what she had done, Potter had told him about the new injuries on her stomach. It had been painful to be reminded of the reality: just because things had improved, and they had, they still had an uphill battle to have her healthy in mind and body. A battle where a lot of the fighting had to be done by the little witch who felt so fragile in his arms.

It was only as the fireplace began to hiss that they vacated the sofa in favour of the rug in front of the hearth, waiting for their visitor to appear. Hermione was more than a little nervous, bringing anyone into the fold about Harry's house was far from what she wanted, let alone someone who was so closely involved with Lucius Malfoy. It felt risky, and if it weren't for the trust she had built in Draco, she would have dismissed the idea immediately. Noticing the movement in the cherrywood logs that signified a floo call beginning, they sat up and waited as the flames sparked emerald green and a man's head appeared in the fire. Hermione considered him: glowing black skin that reminded her of Kingsley, but with a more refined angular face shape that tapered down through his cheekbones, the man was older too. His hair had thinned somewhat, fashioned into an affable salt and pepper quiff. She held no image of the man, and she hoped that meant he was not one of Voldemort's followers.

"Draco, how wonderful to see you again," the man paused, waiting to be introduced to her. She couldn't place his accent, it seemed to ascend above geographical boundaries, the voice of someone well-travelled beyond Wizarding Britain.

"Mr. Shafiq, I hope you are well. May I introduce Miss Hermione Granger, she's a good friend of mine and the Head Girl here at Hogwarts."

Draco's tone was clipped with formality, but Hermione could tell he was well acquainted with the man, for he kept a measure of the warmth she had only come to know this year. If Shafiq recognised her name, he didn't show it. Instead, he bowed his head toward her politely. She had been cautious of this meeting turning into an impromptu slanging match over her blood heritage, but for now at least, she felt relatively secure as he not unkindly instructed them to call him Mo.

"So, am I to assume that the two of you are going to refit the Manor? Draco, you were hardly forthcoming in your letter."

Avoiding Hermione's eyes, Draco replied, "Actually no, I have no plans to return there. Hermione is refitting a home for her friend as a surprise, and due to some publicity issues, she's unable to traverse the usual interior design haunts. As we discussed, I'd like you to take a look at the house plans, get a feel for the type of house it will be, and then present some options to us… to her."

Clearly the man was keen for a fresh challenge, even if the cottage was far smaller and less imposing than the property he had assumed to be his new project. As Draco passed a copy of the sketches he had completed of the place, with any trace of the true owner meticulously removed, it occurred to Hermione how well orchestrated this had been. She knew nothing of what an interior designer actually did, but even so felt in safe hands between the two men who had clearly seen more home improvement over their lives than she had. Given their apparent interest and expertise in such matters, she was far from eager to begin being questioned on the furnishings for each room, feeling out of her depth. She was pleasantly surprised, then, when the question came packaged in a more friendly form: describe the people who will live in the house.

Pausing for a moment to collect her thoughts, Hermione smiled as she spoke, "As a person? Well, he warms a room when he's there. He's funny, dry humour measured with a kind smile. He is compassionate, especially to children, and animals like him. His old owl, and my old cat. Dragons, and hippogriffs. They take to him, especially the misunderstood ones. He values people for who they are, and he's constantly surrounded by friends to whom he's unwaveringly loyal. His heart is always open for the people he loves. He's generous with his time and his means when it comes to his friends. He's modest with his expenditure on himself, he likes his own things, really takes care of his possessions, of which there are few. He's modest with his achievements too, but I'd love for him to celebrate them more. He's strong, and persevering, but he likes and deserves softness and comfort. He likes open spaces, nothing too enclosed, nothing that makes him feel trapped. He loves flying and exploring. He…"

Draco couldn't help but feel a touch of jealousy as he listened to her speak. She knew him deeply beyond all of the fighting, the war, the prophecies. The way she described him, her amber eyes brightening as though someone had released fairy dust from deep within them, the gentle way her mouth naturally curved into a smile as she spoke, it was pure in a way he'd never known. It was a glowing love so deep and so wholesome that he felt unfit to witness it. It made him want to have a baby with the loving woman in front of him, while simultaneously wanting to run away and cease sullying her with his presence. It was captivating and terrifying all at once. His fear was escalated as Shafiq finally asked another question, "Will you be living with him?"

She stole a careful look at Draco first, wishing nothing more than to take his hand as she responded but felt so unsure of the politics of the circumstances that she didn't dare, "I think so. At least for a while, as we are responsible for his Godson. Who will need a nursery, he's going to be two by the time we move in. He likes bright colours, and forests, and building blocks, and wolves…"

Draco took a deep breath. He was surer than ever that there was no romantic feeling between the two friends, but he finally had confirmation that she would not consent to being dragged away to a Malfoy property coddled in his arms far from the outside world. She intended to live with Potter, which made things significantly more complex. He knew he was being presumptuous and impetuous, that they should court first and take things slowly. He knew all of that. But it didn't make things any easier to hear her intentions. Would Potter even allow him in the house? Would he allow him overnight? Would she consent to be away from Teddy overnight? His head pulsed, the tell-tale signs of an emerging migraine.

A bemused looking man finally took advantage of her need to take a breath, and interrupted, "Ah, well I'm very well informed on your friend and your Godson. But, Miss Granger, what do you need in your home?"

That got his attention again, keen to listen to her talk and inadvertently reveal all of her favourite things. _Valuable intelligence for their courtship_. Yet all she did was stutter and ask for a bookshelf, and for a basic Potions lab to be set up in the basement. While he wasn't exactly sold on the idea of her living there, in what seemed to be a fairly perfect family situation without him, he was even less thrilled by the idea of her living without her needs catered for, living in a situation that didn't make her happy.

"Granger? One bookshelf? Mo. She has read every book at Hogwarts, at least three times. You will see on the plans where I've indicated a study. That room must be lined with shelves, for her many hundreds of books. Dark wood, and the light kept dim. She likes to read by the fire, and she favours a firm armchair with plenty of blankets. She likes taking leisurely baths, and extremely hot showers. Ideally there will be a cap on the temperature to prevent her from burning herself. She likes candles, so will need ample space for them that won't be threatened by clumsy friends and the toddler. She…" he stumbled, realising just how eloquently he had expressed his knowledge of her, "… needs to be more upfront about her own needs within the project."

The designer did not miss the interaction between the two, yet he remained silent on the matter. It would not benefit anyone to make the situation awkward. Or more awkward than it already was, the girl moving in with someone other than Master Malfoy. The boy had made no indication that he would be joining them. _Strange_. He spoke, cutting through the awe written into the young woman's expression, "Given it seems I am not to be provided with an address of the house I am furnishing, I trust you have house elves who can oversee the items being fitted. I'll make arrangements, draw up more details plans and send them to you for approval."

As the fireplace glowed green one final time, the man disappeared, and Hermione's features shifted into one of nervous energy, almost downcast. Spreading his legs apart as he leant against the firm back of the sofa, he pulled her between them and embraced her.

"Draco? Do we have to use house elves?"

He could almost picture the slight wobble of her lip, the uncertain lines of her forehead. Of course she wouldn't be keen to have house elves managing the furniture, she would likely think they would be crushed under the sheer weight, "Kreacher will want to imbue the furniture with his magic. It will help him manage the household when necessary. That drunken little one might want to help, but you could pay her, and we could supervise?"

Feeling her relax into his arms, he took a deep breath. He had to ask. He was no longer concerned about some sort of perverse romance. He just needed to know whether there was a chance for them. It was ludicrously premature, he knew he might chase her away, but he also couldn't have it eat away at him, "Granger. Is there room for me in your life? When you live with Potter and have Teddy and things?"

Hermione twisted around in his lap and faced him as best she could, while keeping his arms tightly around her. Her mouth was slightly agape, dazed that he had asked the question she had a feeling was brewing. She should have been more proactive, she knew, but she desperately didn't want to overstep the mark, didn't want to scare him away. "If I tell you that I'm going to make room for you, a… a Draco shaped space, will that scare you away?"

"Merlin, no. I want there to be room, a lot of room. I don't want this to end, ever. I'm serious about you Hermione. I'm just concerned… about the logistics." He spoke as gruffly as he could, but his lacking eye contact betrayed the emotion he had invested.

"Harry and I living together? It's unusual. I… I can't imagine not living with him, to be honest, not always like it is now – but I want to be under the same roof. We've gone through so much together. I never had any friends as a child. I was a witch in a Muggle school, and everyone thought I was strange, too interested in books, and sometimes my magic got out of control. The other children were scared of me, and I was so alone. No one wanted to play with me, to talk to me. I thought Hogwarts would be different, but it wasn't, not until Harry came along. I never knew what it meant to be a friend, and we've grown so close. Especially last year, Ron left us when we were searching and… it was just us. Harry never knew friendship either, he never had anyone who just cared and loved him without demanding back. He's so young, emotionally… but so am I in many ways. I know that, I'm so fucked up that I need my best friend to be close all the time. I can't fall asleep without being held by someone, and he took that on for me. And now you know, and I know you can do so much better than me. I'm sorry. I should've thought about this before we started, I'm sorry."

She tried to stand up, tears roaring down her face now, and he felt a wave of resurrection in his hatred for Muggles for the first time in over a year. He kept his grip on her waist and pulled her to him. She was facing him now, straddling him in a way that would have been overtly sexual had it not been such an emotionally charged moment. "You are not fucked up. Never say that again. I hate them, I hate those Muggles for treating you badly. For not appreciating you. I don't know what Potter went through, but clearly he wasn't brought up in the conventional household I thought. I can see that. I'm glad… I'm fucking glad that you have each other. It's not like I've made things easy for you either, I know that. I have no right to take away whatever it is that Potter does for you, but I want to be part of your support system. I want, one day, for it to be me who holds you every night. For us to have a family one day, and maybe he's just some weird uncle that lives with us too. I'm willing to do that, adopt Potter, whatever you need. Please don't walk away, please give us a chance."

She seemed confused for a moment, but within the blur of her tears and a wetness on his cheeks that he knew came from his own, she reached up and their lips met. Their kiss was gentle, a promise of more to come, a commitment to understand each other. As her legs tensed around him, he paused to suckle on her lower lip for a moment before pushing her backward toward the rug. She was laying beneath him, her legs circled around his waist urging him against her. The way she gripped him as he felt his bulge brush at the thicker, starched denim fabric between her legs meant his craving for her was impossible to hide. As her amber eyes met his, he couldn't wait any longer, and kissed her deeply. Her hands were above her head, and his fingers traced them as he resisted holding her wrists together, as she melted beneath him. Her lips were soft and yielded to his, and he took pleasure in her sweet surrender. She was so responsive, her mewls captivating him as he sought to elicit more. His chest pressed more solidly against hers, and his hands trailed down along her neck, ribs and around to her stomach.

His eyes flickering open for a moment, he saw the passionate rouge of her face, a hint of darkened eyes where her makeup had run with her tears, and her slightly swollen, pouting lips. He had never seen a more beautiful woman in all his life. He leant down to kiss her again, exploring the recesses of her mouth more roughly this time, and she arched against him needily. Her jumper rubbed against his own shirt, and it rose to expose the soft dip of her stomach that he wanted nothing more than to feed; then further still as the first bones of her ribs were exposed below him. It was only as his hand gradually traced her hip bone that she seemed to realise her shirt had risen high enough to reveal a tease of the rigid lace covered underwire of her bralette. Sitting up quickly, it was only his Quidditch reflexes that prevented a head on collision between them.

"Shit, I'm sorry. You don't have to see that."

Hermione blushed profusely, tugging her soft jumper firmly to cover the long, thin pinkness of the scarred flesh along her rib. She couldn't bring herself to look at him, and evaded his eyes as he brushed his fingertips along her jawline to her chin and tilted her head up to face him. He desired nothing more than to have pushed her shirt back up, and kiss his way along her wound, but it was clear she needed reassurance. He hated Dolohov, not for the scar, not for that symbol of her enduring strength, but for making her feel anything less than beautiful.

"Hermione, that scar is from Dolohov's wand?" As she nodded, he smiled, "I'm guessing you don't know much about him, if you're anything other than proud of that scar. He's one of the Dark Lord's original friends, certainly the most powerful wizard within the inner circle. A better duellist than Snape, his spell craft more vicious and inventive. And you silenced him, and survived. He spent every minute practicing nonverbal magic afterwards; I don't think he ever spoke as he cast again. And then, despite that, you wiped his memory, and humiliated him in front of his master. You held him to account with your magic like no one ever had, and he obsessed about it."

"Obsessed? Sounds extremely dangerous."

"It would have been, but not in the way you think, not at first. He wanted to understand how you had come to have magic, he gave me a hard time about whether you were truly Muggleborn. My mother sent him away eventually, felt the whole thing was unhealthy. I think he went to Snape after that, and after some choice accusations about why he held an interest in a schoolgirl, he kept his thoughts to himself."

She giggled, amused at the image of the stern Potions master and recent confidante sarcastically tearing into Dolohov over his fascination with a little girl, while Draco rubbed his inner left forearm self-consciously.

"That scar is something to be proud of, and it's a beautiful part of you. The real question is if you can accept my scar," he said, as his fingers nimbly unfastened the buttons of his shirt. Hesitating slightly, his steel grey eyes darkened with a hint of tension. Pulling the right sleeve from his shoulder first, she quickly forgot all about the tattoo waiting on his left arm, and instead found herself entranced by how broadly masculine his shoulders were, how his smooth chest was sculpted, and his abdomen so taut as it belied his well-kept physique. As she reached out to trace her fingertips along his shoulders, he quivered under her light touch, as she brought her fingers down his left arm and down to his forearm. She traced the black mark, from the tip of the snake's head and through its curves up to the skull it emerged from. As she reached the head, she brought his arm up to her lips, and kissed it.

Had he not been so nervous, he might have come undone there. Hermione Granger, Muggleborn extraordinaire, kissing his Dark Mark with no lingering trace of disgust or sadness. He felt his hardness press against his trousers painfully, and he desperately tried to think of anything to distract him from his desire: his father's cane, Goyle's public masturbation tendencies, Aunt Bellatrix and the Dark Lord. When that finally worked enough to ensure he didn't accidentally impale her, he wrapped his arms around her waist as he lay back on the carpet and pulled her on top of him. He had her full weight in his arms, and enjoyed how easily he could hold her, how perfectly she settled in his grasp. As her eyes wandered again to his chest, he pulled her closer and savoured in the way her legs rested against his, the weight of her breasts against his chest, and the loose tendrils of her curls that teased along his cheeks. As he found her mouth, he faintly licked along her lower lip, enjoying the way her mouth fell open in response. Then she was kissing him, and she was warm and sweet and gentle to his coolness, to his saltiness, to his dominance. He was lost in her, every muscle in his body thrilled with the contact. Eyes closed, and ears deaf to the fireworks over the lake, she was all of the colours, all of the brightness, all of the life he could imagine.


	33. Within

Within

While the new term came with a flurry of activity, the return of classes and a vast increase in the workload of both Hermione and Neville, it had a more limited impact on the growing friendship between the four than she had imagined. Most importantly, Harry and Draco seemed to be making a concerted effort with one another. They had developed an easy rhythm with one another, allowing the other room where appropriate with a flexibility she hadn't expected, and the result made her feel cossetted between them. At times, it had proven a little stifling, and she used her patrols to get some much-desired time alone. Neville had been an immeasurable support, his interest piqued by perhaps the most unlikely friendship and relationship of the ages, enjoying the occasional awkwardness of boundary navigation between the two men. Hermione, for her part, had spent significant time buried in self-doubt, frustration at her selfishness in keeping both her best friend and boyfriend close, and fear of her inability to find balance that wasn't taking advantage of either man. Both Harry and Draco had pulled her back from that lonely mental space on several occasions, when uncertainty surged to the extent that they recognised the telling signals of an impending incident: the shallow breathing, the widened eyes, the fidgeting. It seemed that things were, for now, under control.

It was true, she was more like herself. She could feel it. As she strode confidently through the Ministry toward Kingsley's office, smiling at those who greeted her, she felt the familiar buzz of adrenaline. It was a feeling she had missed, and her stomach twisted a little in disgust at that knowledge. Had she been asked last year, running for her life equipped with a tent and a beaded bag, if she would seek out more adventures, she would have thought the question was moronic. She had since discovered that the banality of life only served to heighten her panic attacks, increase her urges to harm herself. She had no desire to risk her life, return to that way of living again, but tactics and strategy? It made her feel alive again. As Hermione entered the office for the fourth meeting they had held, she was greeted with an earnest hug from the man who she had come to discover was as warm, intelligent and level-headed as she had heard from the Order. Working with him, despite her somewhat aggressive entrance to the position, was challenging and rewarding, and they were both pleased with the progress they were making with their plans.

"So what do we do about the Wizengamot? We are going to struggle to introduce any wholesale change across the Ministry, regardless of our oversight of the departments themselves, without a full and moderate council. We have yourself and Harry now, yes, but ten seats are empty altogether. The remaining forty are dominated by the Sacred Twenty-Eight and, to be frank, the incompetent," Kingsley spoke, no longer as defeatist as he had been when Hermione had first approached him, and keen to hear her ideas on the matter.

She took a sip of her tea before speaking, considering her words carefully, "I'd rather the Wizengamot was undersized than out of control. We need to remove a significant number of seats from certain families. We'll have to be strategic with that, setting out a clear opportunity to contest the decision, and tempering it with the retention of certain associated families to avoid them successfully claiming discrimination. If we allow the Malfoy line to retain their seat under the condition it passes to Draco, then it would be hard for Yaxley or Carrow to claim their past is being held against them. If we invite more Pureblood families to the council, we can also prevent any claims with regard to blood status discrimination: Neville should be taking the Longbottom seat, and we can offer seats to the oldest heirs of the Abbot and Weasley families. For now, we'll keep the likes of Fudge on there. I know he's an idiot, but he's a pliable one. We'll keep a file on him, and when we have an appropriate replacement, have his seat rescinded for misconduct."

The way she spoke was so casual, it was almost impossible to interpret her words as ruthless political plotting, despite her openness. Kingsley smiled into his cup: the Order had perhaps been too quick to deny her entry to the fold all those years ago. Perhaps she wouldn't have been quite so confident then, but he'd still have given a substantial pile of Galleons to see her run rings around Alastor. She had always seemed so affable and demure, back in those days of Grimmauld Place. Little had he known the determined tactician hidden beneath, and not for the first time, he felt himself looking over her delicate form as they spoke. Keeping his tone measured, he finally asked her the question that had plagued him since the hospital wing, "You seem convinced we can trust Draco Malfoy, Hermione. Why? He didn't emerge from the war spotless you know; he has the mark and while his defection had him acquitted of charges, there would have been sufficient grounds to send him to Azkaban."

If she was offended by the question, she didn't show it. Instead, she leant forward and settled her teacup on the desk between them, "He has shown me his Dark Mark." She looked up to meet Kingsley's eyes, allowing herself to enjoy the evident surprise within them for a moment before continuing. "I am likely unaware of most of the crimes he was accused of prior to his defection at the battle. I am sure he committed acts that would have banished him to Azkaban prior even to the fall of the Ministry." She decided not to inform him of the crimes he had committed since, the memory of Zabini's crunching knuckles carrying no sympathy anymore. "I didn't know him then, though I hated him. I do know him now, as he has been since the war. If we expect people to overcome their prejudices within wizarding society, we must grow out of our own too. Perhaps that means we have to give a genuine fresh start, perhaps that means we keep a careful eye. Who knows? We're all making sense of this as we go."

Kingsley considered her answer as he traced his finger against the top drawer of his desk. She was giving nothing away as to the nature of their relationship, and while part of him wanted to hand her the file tucked in his desk that held every detail of the Malfoy heir's involvement in crimes during the war such that she could decide whether to read for herself, he couldn't bring himself to present her with such a false choice. If he handed over the file, she would read it. There was no question. With the limited hours they had spent in each other's company, and her reputation as a voracious reader, he knew it would be an impulse she couldn't avoid. There was a validity in her words he couldn't deny, and so he nodded and moved on to the personal matter she had raised the previous week.

"I've had your visit to Azkaban approved. Given you've never been before, I've requested a portkey be made available to you for collection on the sixth floor. Two visitors can be taken too, as per your request, and you can visit the prisoner in his cell. Hermione. I know I don't need to remind you how dangerous that man is. How dangerous the people there are? If anything makes you feel even marginally uncomfortable, I expect you to use lethal force. We can fix that afterwards; we can't bring you back. Send me a Patronus as soon as you return, please."

Hermione shivered a little at his words, the idea of casting an unforgivable still alien to her, "Thank you, Kingsley."

As had become customary, he walked her to the lift and waited until she had safely selected the correct floor before he left her. As the cage shut around her, and she was whisked away to the Department of Magical Transportation amongst a flurry of memos, Kingsley couldn't help but think again of the file in his desk. He had spent hours flicking through it, largely after he'd been witness to the way the young man had clung to her hand and refused to let go. It had seemed so foreign to the distant, dispassionate boy he had met over the Summer as the Manor had been searched after Lucius had been arrested. He had cut a sullen, lone figure in the austere ancestral home that had come to such ruin. He had not complained as priceless antique after antique had been removed from the property without hope of recompense. He had merely been there, a gaunt soul on the very periphery of existence. His thoughts interrupted by Amos Diggory asking him incessant questions, Kingsley assumed the now well-practiced mask he had adopted with the man, and pushed his thoughts of Draco Malfoy to one side.

It proved to be several days before the portkey was used. After a lazy Sunday brunch, Draco followed Hermione and Harry up to their rooms to formulate a plan. Easily catching them up on the stairs, he wrapped an arm around Hermione's waist, fingers rubbing small circles on her stomach. Since the term had begun, they had eased back on the public displays of affection a little. While he appreciated it would be a sensitive issue when news broke, and he wasn't in any rush to cause her the problems he would inevitably come with, he spent most days desiring nothing more than to scoop her into his arms and kiss her soundly in front of a crowded Great Hall until she was thoroughly claimed. From his perspective, the males of Hogwarts were egregiously flirtatious with his little witch: he had his eye on McLaggen and Slughorn in particular. Exhaling as they arrived to her rooms without being accosted, the boys lounged by the fireplace, while Hermione brought out the velvet pouch she had received from the Ministry.

"I still don't understand why we need to go to Azkaban," Harry repeated, for perhaps the hundredth time, turning to look at Hermione warming her feet by the fire while running a hand through his already thoroughly messy hair.

"You don't. I don't want Hermione anywhere near the place, anywhere near my father, it's too dangerous." Ignoring the narrowed eyes of his girlfriend, he continued while teasing his fingers along the edges of the music box, "I need to return this to him. I will not allow him to believe he may continue threatening Granger in any way. He won't give up until it becomes impossible for him to do so. I believe the alterations I've made to the artefact will make that point clear."

As the two men argued back and forth about alternatives to going to Azkaban, Hermione's toes soon warmed up, and as she grew comfortable, she quickly tired of the pointless bickering, "Prisoners do not receive post. I have no inclination to continue being intimidated by Lucius Malfoy. You can't go into the prison without a Ministry Official. I'm the only one you know, and even then, I'm going to have to disguise the box in some way to avoid detection." As the two men fell into line, sensing a sharpness in her tone that made clear there was to be no further debate on the matter, she continued, "Only one problem remains. What happens if they search his cell? It'll be confiscated."

Draco looked at her, he hadn't wanted to go into too much detail about precisely what he'd done to it. She wouldn't approve. She never did, of anything that was outright vengeful. "I've woven in a warded disillusionment charm to the magic I've placed on it. That will be sufficient to repel anyone other than my father, and the three of us, from seeing it. Anyway, we have another issue. The portkey won't work on Hogwarts grounds, and we have no way of getting out of here until the Hogsmede weekend next month."

"Actually… well, that's not a problem. There is a secure route out of the castle, but we'll need the invisibility cloak."

Harry couldn't help but reminisce a little. For the best part of seven years, they had been coming up with plots and schemes like this: breaking into the Chamber of Secrets, Gringotts, and now Azkaban. The replacement of Ron with Draco, while disconcerting, certainly hadn't dulled their adventures. Adventures he had hoped were over, and he now found himself adopting Hermione's long worn position of avoiding them where possible. He was, however, unwilling to send her off to Azkaban without him there to help. _It could go wrong_. Hermione looked awfully shifty as it was, and that usually meant something nefarious was on the cards. Following her out into the castle, it wasn't until Harry caught sight of Ariana's portrait that he realised what Hermione had discovered in the castle. _He had to find a way to update the map with the changes, that was for sure_. Grinning at the confusion evident on Malfoy's face, followed by the raised eyebrow at his realisation that he was following Hermione's orders without question, Harry realised that the odd adventure might not be the end of the world. It was worth it just to see the slow indoctrination of his former enemy, as he fell under the spell of her instructions.

Emerging from the tunnel, Aberforth winked at them from the busy bar, and Hermione waved back at him. As they exited into the tight backlane behind the bar, she removed a crumpled can from the velvet pouch, motioned for the boys to touch it, before making an anti-clockwise wand movement over it. As they waited for the portkey to activate, both men tried to ask questions that were quickly silenced by a hard look from Hermione. It was not the time, nor the place, to discuss secret routes out of the castle nor how she had come to learn of them. Not when she was so dreading the trip. Glowing softly, they felt a familiar pull seize them.

Spinning through the air, Hermione wasn't sure whether she was going to pass out or vomit first. The nausea clawed at her throat, and she tried to force down the bile as she caught a dizzy glimpse of a similarly green looking Harry across from her. Feeling an arm grip hers, she saw a glug of vomit slip out of Harry's mouth as she let go of the can and into the guiding embrace that Draco had on her arm. A few moments later, the spinning seemed under control for the first time since the can had begun to glow, and was replaced by a sensation of floating not dissimilar to treading water. Relaxing into the feeling, her eyes were able to focus again, and she instantly regretted it. She was in the air. _Shit_. Squeezing her eyes shut, she knew she hit the ground when she stumbled and was caught by arms she knew to belong to Draco. Harry was still bent over, retching.

"You two really don't know how to use a portkey," Draco smirked, until he saw how queasy Hermione looked, and recalled that she wasn't the keenest on flying. Something she could have avoided had it not been for him. Watching Harry recover, he determined that they were in the correct place. Standing on the eerily distressed slats of a wooden dock, there was a warded iron gate, behind which it seemed there was only mist. Every fibre of his being demanded to flee, to go elsewhere. Yes, they were in the right place. Once Hermione had wrapped the music box in the invisibility cloak, she walked slightly ahead, and presented her wand to the gate. Draco couldn't help but be impressed. She could feel the wards more strongly than he could, she could interpret the magic like it spoke the language of her very core. He, as a powerful Pureblooded wizard, could tell the gate wanted something. By process of elimination, and previous experience, he could guess it wanted to identify a wand. But she had none of those practical benefits, and she just knew.

"How's your Patronus charm?" Hermione asked, glancing over at Harry when Draco shook his head. He couldn't cast his own. They would have to ensure their charms were strong enough to protect the three of them, "Expecto Patronum!"

None of the three had ever visited the island fortress before, yet all had heard first-hand accounts of what to expect. It became immediately clear that either the tales had been sugar coated for their young ears, or there were no words quite appropriate to explain what Azkaban was like. It was only around a hundred metres from the Portkey arrival dock to the first gate of the prison, but her legs ached to turn and run with every step they took through the whistling chill. The stag and the otter frolicked around the three, circling them keenly, corporeal within the brewing tempest. Hermione knew that they were sufficient to protect the three of them from the juvenile dementors that now guarded the prison while the inquiry was ongoing, but she still felt her chest seize with an invading emptiness she couldn't quite repel. Perhaps the nature of the dementors had been implanted in the very land they walked on, or perhaps it was all psychological: something was casting a brutal winter on her heart.

Her body felt detached, making her movements sluggish. Her mind dulled, she fought to focus on what she was feeling. There was pain, a clutching chest pain, that made her think of her parents alone in the world, childless, as the ache enforced the recall of the most difficult rule she ever broke. There was tension too, her stomach clenching with the shame of her cowardice, and she was struck with the fear she had of undesirable answers, the answers she might find if she attempted to ease her heart's sorrow. There was something deeper too. A pulse that seemed to emanate from her guts, it was strong, and she lightly pressed her hand against it in an attempt to ease the throbbing. As she did, she felt a slight burn, and could think only of glass jars and scarring boils and the vicious rip of satisfaction she had felt at Umbridge's screams in the Forbidden Forest. Overall, despite the pain and the detachment, there was a calm too. It was that peacefulness that seemed most jarring; the same calm she had felt as she'd watched Bogrod burn as she sat atop a dragon, the same calm that had seized her after she saw a masked figure fall from their broom into the Thames as the blaze of red from her wand made its connection. She pulled her brain away from the creeping stillness of her uncomfortably easy acceptance. It was too much. She would not risk her friends by succumbing to her emotions. She would be sharp. She pushed on.

Almost halfway to the gate, it became apparent that Draco was more affected by the crushing desolation than the others. His lips lay thin and grey, his skin gaunt akin to how it had been at the Manor, and his body trembled uncontrollably. Harry had noticed too, and he recast his Patronus, determined to protect all three of them.

Disheartened, Hermione shook her head, "No, our combined patronuses are sufficient to protect the three of us. Even one would do it. Draco?" When there came no answer beyond a shift in his eyes, Hermione continued, "If he's feeling like I am, it's like the darkest recesses of his soul are consuming him. He's suffered more than we have, last year. It's taken a toll. We need to get in and out of here quickly."

Speeding up, as best they could, Harry threw an arm around Malfoy to support his weight and ensure they made it to the gate without him collapsing. Hermione took his hands, and tried to warm them between her own freezing fingers. As they got to the high, iron gates of the prison, she drew her wand forward and presented it once again. Her otter was circling Draco closely now, determined to protect him, while Harry's stag took its place as advance guard. As they stepped through the second gate, the fortress came into full view as the mist finally cleared. It was as though a solid block of stone had been placed in the middle of the North Sea, chiselled away at as little as possible to merely push prisoners within tight gaps. It was a vast and foreboding monolith, and while there were dementors swooping around the heights of the building, Hermione felt her mind reconnect to her body. She could think clearly, and turned to check if Draco and Harry had regained the same clarity of thought.

Both seemed to have recovered from the mist, but still far away. Hermione could imagine why. Draco had a task ahead of him: they hadn't spoken much of his father, she'd been reticent to mention him or ask, a small part of her still awaiting his anger over her lie. Harry's eyes were more focused, and they shared a look. _Sirius_. Sirius had spent so much of his life in this place. She continued walking, determined to remain strong. Determined to get this done, and leave safely. There was no door to the building, nor any gate requiring further identification. Sirius had said, long ago, that there was no need for any door at Azkaban, that the prisoners remained there due to mental chains that were far more resilient than physical restrains could ever be. She had not reflected all too much on that at the time, but now? Now, it made her blood run cold.

She took the lead, stepping into the rock. The floor was damp, saturated in filth. The ceiling was low, and the dark stone surrounded them: there had been every expense spared in the conversion of the fortress to a prison. Small steps, she kept going. The cells began soon enough: arched doorways with thick gunmetal doors each carved with the prisoner number, and a thin slot that provided a view of the cell. Hermione engaged her memory, rapidly sorting through them until she found that tattoo on Lucius Malfoy's neck. His prisoner number. Runes. _It was an 'O', and then… then it was an 'A.' And numbers. Three of them. A five, a three and a seven_. For a moment, she considered asking her two companions to look out for them, but realising now was not the time to teach the Runic alphabet, she continued looking herself. The first floor of cells was ruled out, but the increased noise level was difficult to miss. It wasn't loud, not yet, but the moans were more loquacious than they had been. The prisoners knew someone was there.

"Harry, I don't think we can keep the patronuses with us. We'll have to recast them on the way out, or there'll be a riot." She met Draco's eyes, and fought an urge to hold his hand, instead turning back toward the gritty staircase that was slippery. Holding onto the rock ahead of her, her hands burnt as she fought to avoid falling. On the second floor, there was again, no sign of Lucius Malfoy's cell. Indeed, it was only as they got to the fourth floor that the atmosphere changed. It was darker, colder, and at the very end of the row, the fateful runes lay freshly carved into the door. Harry walked past her, and stared through the gap. He stepped back, face ashen, and nodded at Draco.

"Draco, I'm going to open the door and keep it open, it will only recognise my magic. We'll be right here, waiting outside. Are… are you sure you want to do this?" When he nodded back at her, she took the invisibility cloak from the music box and allowed him to take it from her. Their eyes met, his usual calm grey prickled with bright fear, and she wanted to drag him far away from this place and never return. Yet his jaw set, and he turned away, ready for her to grant him access. He was determined to see this through.

As the door creaked open, he stepped in. The cell was much like the corridor, damp and bleak. There was a thin, stinking mattress on the ground stained with years of misuse, and a bucket in the corner that he chose not to think about too much. Sitting in the corner of the cell, on a natural ledge, was the person he had come to see. A man he had never intended to meet again. Dressed in a fraying, grey horizontally striped prison uniform, Lucius Malfoy wasn't half the man he had been when Draco was a child. He had deteriorated living under the Dark Lord, but not to this extent. There was an air of decay laced into the figure before him that seemed a result of Azkaban, and Azkaban alone. His hair was thick, matted in places, and had lost all of its platinum sheen. His skin seemed thinner somehow, dirty too, and it aged the patriarch more than Draco had ever imagined possible. His cheekbones and chin were pointed, though no longer with the sculpted lines of an aristocrat: they were the features of a frail, starving creature. His father had long claimed an ability to judge the value of a witch or wizard on sight, and the irony didn't escape Draco: his father looked every inch an inferior kind.

"My son returns." His voice was stern, betraying not an ounce of emotion. It held strength, despite the raspy intonations that came from not speaking for a long time. His father did not stand, he did not move. He hadn't expected his father to seek to hold him, not really. The reality of the truth was difficult to swallow nevertheless.

"I trust you're aware of your sentence."

"How kind of my only son to come and visit his father, to confirm I'm aware of my life sentence? Aware of the money I must now pay to the accounts of mudbloods and blood traitors alike? Is the Minister waiting outside? You never did know anything of loyalty, and commitment, Draco. I haven't forgotten where you stood at Hogwarts."

Draco pushed down the fury that rose inside of him, how dare his father speak to him on loyalty and commitment? A frightened prisoner in their own home, too weak to betray the Dark Lord for the sake of his wife and child? And later, a reluctant follower in a battle he felt sure would lead to his death? He was not loyal. Not truly. Lucius Malfoy had only ever been loyal to himself, and his cowardice.

"Playing the dutiful Death Eater again, father? Still terrified into the role by a man who is dead?" Draco tutted dismissively, when the frail man made to stand, "Going to beat me? It must be second nature by now, you've spent so long without a wand."

"How dare you! You will respect me, Draco, no matter how many lessons you must be taught until you do."

"Ah yes, you continue trying to teach your 'lessons' from inside an Azkaban cell. I have something to return to you, a little gift." Setting down the music box on a filthy ledge nearest the door, it felt almost a shame to dirty the antique with the grime on the cell walls, but it couldn't be helped. His father was standing now, not quite as tall as he had once been, and Draco realised for the first time that he had grown to be slightly larger than this man. Straightening his back, he turned to face him.

"You will end whatever dalliance you have with that filth, Draco. I will not hesitate to end her, if not."

Despite the chilling fear that threatened to absorb him, Draco scoffed, "You'll send your little pet Rosier after her? She out duelled Dolohov, father, I hardly think that scum will stand a chance. If I have to remove him, I will. I will not allow any harm to befall her. Your time is done, old man." The two men squared up, a situation Draco had long imagined as a child, standing up to his tormentor. Never had he considered it becoming a reality, however, never had he dared imagine how strong a position he would have. His father still posessed the broad shoulders, and middle-aged bulk that made him seem so menacing, but it was dispossessed from its previous status by the condition he kept. "I am more loyal, and more committed than you could ever imagine. Open your gift." As Lucius made no effort to step forward, refusing to follow the orders of his son, Draco sneered and repeated the instruction.

"Want to hear the Mudblood scream, Draco? Very well." Lucius smirked as best he could with his thinned lips and stubble, and finally walked toward the wooden box that seemed so out of place in the cell, fingering open the clasp before turning to face his son once more. The box glowed, and the porcelain ornament began to rotate. Neither man commented on the absence of any such screaming. Ignoring the obnoxious silence of his only son, the man stepped forward as authoritatively as possible, and pulled the lid down to end the silent spin of the figurine within. He was met with an immediate, sharp shock that had him withdrawing his hand from the offending item. Recoiling, Lucius raised his head sharply toward his son, whose face remained impassive despite the fury and confusion of his father. Taking a different approach, the man instead tried to slam down the wooden top of the box, thus avoiding the clasp. He was rewarded by a current powerful enough to have him fall back on the stone.

"Goodbye, father."

Turning his back on the dishevelled form of his father, Draco strode out from the cell more powerfully than he felt. Pulling the door closed with a heavy clank, he looked up to see Hermione shivering just as he had been on their arrival to the island. Her skin had paled, and her tremor was pronounced. Harry had her hand in his, and looked grateful that the visit was complete. Taking her other hand in his, she was ice cold and he momentarily questioned whether she would be able to walk unsupported. Yet, she dutifully took step after step, eyes burning with determination as they left the brutalism behind and reached the apparition point. Hermione's grip was strong as she held the arm of both men, and turned them determinedly. With a gentle pop, it was clear that she really did intend to take them home.

As they arrived in Hogsmede, it was immediately clear that the dual side along apparition had taken a toll on her. She seemed winded, but seemed to have avoided splinching herself, and as she raised her wand to cast what would no doubt be another powerful spell, Harry pushed her arm down. _Too much magic_. Half a second later, the world seemed to be spinning around her and she half collapsed into Draco's arms. Harry guided them toward the Hog's Head, through the bar into a remote booth. Aberforth had long since disappeared back to the school, but Harry eyed a familiar bartender and asked for a bottle of Ogden's, three glasses and a bowl of ice while Draco gently massaged Hermione's neck. She looked exhausted, and she quickly rested her head in the crook of his neck she had come to find so comforting. She fit perfectly.

"I need to send Kingsley a Patronus, to tell him I'm safe. I promised."

Harry firmly pressed a glass of firewhisky into her hand first, with a single ice cube rattling around the base. As she obediently took a sip before screwing up her nose in distaste, she finally noticed the two men relent such that she could send a message to the Minister. Keeping it short, she gratefully sipped again at her glass.

"We're never going back." Harry was definitive: he had experienced quite enough adventures, and he never wanted to be surrounded by those people again, he didn't want to see where Sirius had lost so much of his life, his soul, again. Pleased when both of his companions nodded fervently, he relaxed into the crushed fabric of the bench, and enjoyed breathing in air that didn't carry a stench of decay.

"I can't bring my parents back. Not here. It's not safe. It probably won't ever be, not completely."

Neither man really knew what to say to that, they could hardly disagree. And so instead of providing the platitude of a lie, they satisfied themselves by drinking together until their light-headedness allowed for softer, more pleasant conversation that went well into the night.


	34. Release

Release

Holding her close, he kissed her hair, and sought to reassure her, "'Mione, you know I'll stay, right? Or if you decide you want me to come back for the night, it's the easiest thing in the world? I'm a Floo call away. Promise me you'll get in touch if you need me?"

Smiling up at him, she knew that while he was indeed concerned for her own welfare, that he would miss her too. It was the first night apart for both of them, after all. "It's going to be okay, Harry. If you want to come back, you can always do that. But I want you to enjoy this, get to know your teammates. I'm not going anywhere. Don't forget your gloves!"

Making her way out of the castle, as discreetly as she could, she allowed the positivity she had mustered in front of Harry to fade away. She was dreading tonight, perhaps she would stay awake? _Zabini. Bellatrix. Azkaban. That man. All that could have been lost. _They had already begun plaguing her, despite the bright winter sunshine illuminating her face. Perhaps consciousness was not the answer, but swallowing a vial of Dreamless Sleep was futile too. Apparating to the alley by the house, she pondered if Williamson would ever notice she had slipped his tracking spell. It had been poorly applied, and she was in no hurry to remind him. She was most certainly keen to avoid anyone learning of her increasingly frequent trips to Spinner's End. It would be difficult to explain.

The house was dark as always, and the dust had grown thicker. She should clean it. It was her responsibility. Yet, once again, she walked through without so much of a twitch of her wand and settled into the armchair she now felt so at home within. It was quite possibly the first time anyone had considered the dwelling comforting in any manner; she was certain that Professor Snape had few positive memories of the place. Nevertheless, she had come to enjoy the stolen hours with the man, finding his company pleasant and stimulating despite his constant barbs and sneering. Death had not changed the man; it had merely allowed her to know more of him. As she waited, hoping he would escape the Headmistress for a few hours at least, she took time to examine his bookshelves more closely. While there were many rare and extremely valuable tomes on the shelves, books she would consider selling her own soul to read, she was on the lookout for something altogether more personal, and certainly priceless. His notes. Finding a journal, she retrieved it and indulged in his familiar scrawl: his thoughts on the options to alter the colour of potions without impacting the desired results of the substance, and the half-life. _The work of a spy, that was for sure_. _Yet surely the ingredient to be added depended on the potion?_ This was old. She could tell, the ink had faded a little but the page remained almost new, as if he hadn't opened the book since completing his notes. It seemed he had concluded that to regain a blood-red colour, the addition of Galanthus Nivalis stems would be sufficient. In the margins, were nervous musings that she would never have associated with her most focused Professor: 'could just kill the bitch.' It was a stroke of hot anger that seemed unlike him…

A sharp cough interrupted her reading. Looking up, into the eyes of the severe portrait, she quickly pushed the journal aside and sat properly on the armchair. He seemed as relaxed as she could have hoped about walking in on her curled up on his favourite piece of furniture, reading his private notes, and she conceded that the absence of shouting so far was most definitely a good sign. "Miss Granger, it seems you have not grown out of your plenipotentiary ways. When will you learn not to touch what isn't yours? It is most evident you were not sufficiently disciplined as a child."

She had the good grace to blush, and decided that now was likely not the time to remind him that he had actually bequeathed both the house and its contents to her in his will. His furrowed brow, that had once conjured visions of torture in the dungeons, now made her smile to herself. He had more than earnt the right to frown, to be a miserable git, but he wasn't. Not really. He was just… snarky. And intelligent too. She had known all of those things, of course, but never really had the ideological space to appreciate them. To appreciate him, as a person.

"Pray tell, Miss Granger, who finally discovered how to prevent you from emitting a continuous drone?"

She laughed openly at that, again choosing not to tell him that it was actually thoughts of him. It would only embarrass the man, and she really did want to speak to him. "I went to Azkaban." If he was surprised, which he surely was, he didn't show it. "You were friends with Lucius. At one point, at least. He doesn't seem like someone who gives up on his wishes easily."

"I was closer with his wife, Narcissa. You've met her, on several occasions. My opinion of Lucius, if that is what you ask, is biased based on his treatment of her and my Godson…" when she nodded in understanding, he continued, "He is a stubborn man, but, as you have come to learn, a cowardly one. He is a politician, much like yourself. He grew into his role through galleons, and name, not talent. If it comes to strategy, he will rely on others. You believe he intends to harm you?"

"Hasn't he always? I'm more concerned that he will harm Draco, should he not bend to his wishes."

"Draco should learn to protect himself." His tone was sharp, unyielding.

"Just like he did in our sixth year? Or are the rules different for you?"

"It was an Unbreakable Vow, as you well know, Miss Granger. And a very different set of circumstances. Lucius will only be angered further should his son prove weak enough to rely on a woman, no less one of Muggleborn blood status, to defend himself. Should you choose to protect him, you must be discreet. How is he coping with Azkaban? It was… unhelpful to his overall disposition last time."

"I didn't see him. Draco did. I did look in some other cells though. The Lestrange brothers. Umbridge. They're not quite as docile as I had imagined, from the descriptions Sirius had given. They're more cognisant, perhaps now the adult dementors have been removed? I spoke to Kingsley about it."

_Ah, so his Godson had delivered the box_. He had made good progress, after all, and had apparently convinced Miss Granger to help him. Though, he rather suspected she did not know the finer details of what Draco was up to either. She, though perhaps not as pious as he had once assumed, would be unlikely to approve. Draco had no sense of decorum on such vengeful matters, and he pushed down a shiver when he considered what Lucius would be subject to. "What did you think of the Lestrange family? And what was your recommendation to Shacklebolt?"

She considered her answer, carefully, before responding. "The younger one, he seems scared. A little boy lost. It made me wonder just how many Death Eaters are like that. What if he didn't have an older brother? What if he was sorted into Hufflepuff? What if he had a best friend who was Muggleborn? If it's possible that the path wasn't inevitable, wasn't something within him, is there nothing we can do to right the way? I didn't air this to Kingsley, public opinion would never stand for it. But, as a human being? I can't content myself with writing off quite so many people as unable to contribute to our world." He didn't respond to that. She knew he likely disagreed, and hadn't expected much different. "The older one, he's conscious. He's very aware. He knows I was there, as in he recognised me, and he… he came to the door of his cell. I've recommended that we use Aurors to boost security at the site. It's not secure, not enough. I'm not safe, no one is, while there are only locked doors and juvenile dementors there. Azkaban has proven its security does not live up to the claims, time and time again. Something has to be done."

"Miss Granger. What did Rodolphus Lestrange say to you?" Silence. She didn't want to talk about this. That much was clear. Previously, she had met his eyes and allowed him to watch what she couldn't vocalise. But not today. What was different? Was what the man said so terrifying to her that she was unwilling to relive it? Was she in immediate danger? _Or worse_. _Was it him?_ Had she changed her mind about having him as her advisor, her confidante? Had he pushed her too far, with his questions or his attitude? _Most likely the latter_. "Very well. What makes you think you can trust Aurors? Those that are left, anyway?"

"We can't. We do need to know which ones are trustworthy though. I suggested we work with the Department of Mysteries to set up specialised security wards across the prison. They have the ability to construct something elaborate enough that will allow us to log all movements, all behaviours, all interactions within Azkaban. Then, when we have enough evidence, we not only foil any escape plots, but we also rid ourselves of untrustworthy Aurors. And dementors.'"

Snape was thoughtful. It was, indeed, a convenient way to secure the prison and the Ministry simultaneously. "The Department of Mysteries may not take kindly to being given the Department of Magical Law Enforcement's workload." She paused for a moment, biting her lip in the fashion he had come to recognise as her considering what facts would be relevant. He wished she would stop doing that, too many people had withheld too much from him throughout his life. _Surely in death, he could be spoken to frankly_.

"They would like to better investigate the Death Chamber."

She met his eyes, rather bravely. He knew what she spoke of, of course, he had heard the story of Sirius Black's demise, celebrated it even. The Unspeakables had been untouched by the Dark Lord, who had been uninterested in the puzzles that lay within, beyond wishing to avoid any unpleasantness around the fact that his chief lieutenants had destroyed all of their prophecies a year prior. "Those who attempt to escape?" She nodded. _Clever, dangerous girl_. She was silent now. "There is something else, something more." His silky voice sat gently in the room, tone winding its way through the mist of fears that were enshrouding reality to her.

"Harry has gone, to play Quidditch. He's away overnight. I haven't…"

"Slept alone? You are concerned about nightmares."

She would rather not imagine how he could possibly know that they slept in the same bed, and swallowed her question, "Yes. I can't use Dreamless Sleep. It's proven itself ineffective."

Severus Snape allowed himself to be pensieve for a moment. That was why she didn't want to discuss, or see, Rodolphus Lestrange. The girl, who just moments ago, had been so fierce, so intelligent and so captivating in her political strategy, was now as vulnerable as he had ever known. She was intriguing, and he was growing to understand how she had captured quite so many hearts. Potter. Weasley. Draco. The Minister. He was rather glad he had no physical heart to steal any more, or he'd be in grave danger of her pilfering ways. Had he been able to kick himself, he would. He could provide no comfort, not of the sort he rather suspected was helpful during her nightmares. He had no earthly presence anymore, and he highly doubted she would allow him to take such care of her even if he did. He pulled his mind out of that particular gutter: he, her Professor, would not be comforting her in any which way. _Disgusting thoughts, old man_. The potion, perhaps, he could have improved, altered to work for her needs. _Yes. That was what he meant_. _Nothing more_. Looking up at her, though, he saw the shadow of tears in her eyes. He would have to offer his assistance, at least. _Duty, bloody duty_.

"You are welcome to stay here, if you wish to stay awake. It is your house. I can leave, or remain with you. Or, you might find Draco an appropriate support. I fear I have lost a Slytherin to a dark side of quite a different formulation, Miss Granger." She laughed at that. Just as he hoped she would. It was a tremendous relief. He could not quite understand how this situation had come about, languishing around musty portraits making little lionesses laugh. He had to concede, however, that death was proving far more enjoyable than life had ever been. And no less interesting, most certainly.

Once her laughter had settled, she elected to follow his indiscrete hint about Draco, she said her goodbyes, with a promise to visit more frequently. Just before she left the house, she took a moment to ward the property to her magical signature. She felt somewhat guilty for not doing so earlier, the lateness of her previous visits an unsatisfactory excuse, but now the Muggle security seemed insufficient to guard what was quickly becoming a sanctuary to her. Locking the door behind her anyway, she stepped out into the bright day and dull street, and apparated back to Hogsmede.

Her stomach was churning. By the time she returned to the castle, the light was rapidly fading, and she missed Harry more than she thought possible. Checking her watch, she determined that Malfoy would most definitely have finished with Muggle Studies, and headed toward the library. While they had found an understanding, meeting there and sitting together at their table, even if it was in a companionable silence as they worked; today, her brain ticked through all the reasons he might choose not to be there. She walked sluggishly; aware she was dragging her feet in a gait more reminiscent of Ron than herself, pausing before each corner of the stacks. She felt rather silly, when she saw him sitting there, head bent over a thick sheet of parchment and an inkwell in need of refilling. She enjoyed his focus. It was one of many things she had never noticed, or cared to appreciate, in the years before. Standing still, she allowed herself a moment of just taking him in, before she took her seat opposite him. He didn't look up, but she saw the corners of his mouth shift into a smile, and he pushed the late edition of the Prophet toward her.

She had grown accustomed to reading the paper again, despite the failure of journalists to report anything newsworthy since the war. It was a shame they had not been so taciturn to printing politics while Voldemort was in control. _No, they had jumped on that bandwagon rather too merrily for her own liking_. The front page was dominated by a large photo of Kingsley that she was tempted to frame for him, so wonderful was his scowl. It was nothing of any importance, yet another exposé of his failure to attend any bilateral commitments with MACUSA since his ascension to Minister. She raised an eyebrow. _It wasn't as if they had a country to put right, after all_. She flicked past it, and stumbled on yet more articles about the social crimes of Lucius Malfoy, evidently far more important than those he had recently been convicted for. As she flicked through the rest of the paper, a supplement slipped out onto the desk. An extract of some kind.

'_Snape: Scoundrel or Saint? Bestselling investigative journalist Rita Skeeter returns with her Quick Quote Quill to reveal the abusive childhood, the disturbed loved up stalking, and the fateful decision to turn to Dark Magic of Professor Severus Snape. The thousand-page tome includes details on his sexual obsession with a famous Muggleborn; his creative insanity with the most twisted forms of death magic, and even a recreation of his death, when it is released this coming July. Pre-order now, and learn of the true nature of this supposed 'spy for the light'.'_

Hermione bristled with anger. _How dare she?_ How could she possibly have such intimate knowledge of Professor Snape? And so quickly? He was far more private than Dumbledore had ever been, and he most certainly would not want such a ridiculous book to be written. _The bitch. _She hated Rita Skeeter, an entrenched, furious hatred that had burnt for too long without action.How anyone could question the allegiance of the man was beyond her, and she was far too irate for any introspection at this point. She could feel Draco's eyes on her, the way they widened as he noticed what she was holding.

"He'd have hated that. After everything, people doubting him," he whispered.

She looked up; her brown eyes clouded in a sparkling darkness that he didn't quite recognise. "She will not be publishing this. Not if I have anything to do with it. She knows too much, too much to have gotten this from survivors. She's done something, I'm sure of it."

Draco believed her. He had seen too much now, too much to doubt that she would stop at anything to prevent that book being published. He wasn't sure he wanted to know how, perhaps afterwards, but her protectiveness of his Godfather took him by surprise. Since Christmas really. Perhaps it was just hatred of Rita Skeeter, after all, she'd really done a number on her during the Triwizard Tournament. _No thanks to him, if he were being honest_. She was boiling in rage, and he determined that now the night had truly taken hold and she was evidently in no fit state to work on anything, it was time to take her back to her rooms.

Her bag over his shoulder, her arm looped within his, they walked quietly as her anger dissipated. She seemed clingier than usual, not that he was complaining. He rather enjoyed the small ways the independent little witch would need him, rely on him. She gave him an importance, a value again, even if she didn't know it. When they reached her rooms, just before he leant in to give her a goodnight kiss, he noticed her eyes were nervous. Darting a little more than usual, blown a little wider than was comfortable. Something was wrong. He whispered her password, and guided her through into the sitting room. It was silent, no Potter, no Longbottom. _Just them._ He had never known the place to feel so crushingly empty, and it dawned on him. _Potter was away tonight._ Harry had sought Draco out the previous week, after another friendly round of Quidditch. Explained something about going away for a weekend, he just hadn't realised that it had come around so soon, and he kicked himself internally for being so thoughtless. It was little surprise she seemed so tightly wound today. She was alone.

"Let me stay? Take care of you tonight?" He felt her body tense slightly, she was hesitating, he realised that his wording was likely being misconstrued, "I don't want you to be alone, that's all, I'll sit by your bedside and just hold your hand, be… present. Whatever Potter usually does."

She paused, considering, "You'd stay?" When he kissed her cheek softly in affirmation, she smiled, "I'm not relegating you to a chair. A perfectly large, comfortable bed is available… unless you'd prefer the chair?"

Of course he didn't prefer the chair. As she busied herself in the bathroom preparing for bed, he looked over the bed. Casting the gentlest warming charm possible, just as she had done for him over Christmas, he elected to keep a candle burning through the night. Having rejected Potter's shirts as too small and too scratchy for him, he stripped down to his underwear, hoping he wouldn't make her uncomfortable as he folded each item of clothing carefully into a neat pile on the dresser. She came out of the bathroom, looking rather timid, he smiled at her soft cotton pyjamas. They were a little big, so only her painted toes were visible from beneath the trouser legs. Heading in to brush his teeth, he hoped he would be able to calm her dreams. _This was big_. He wouldn't forgive himself if she had a bad night due to his failures. Stepping back out, she had settled herself into the warm, thick covers and he joined her there. They fell asleep, her nestled in his arms, and not for the first time he thanked the stars and all that was magical that he had seen the light in time for this. In time for her.

Something was lighter, somehow. His eyelids were being prickled by rays of early winter light. A little too early for his liking. _How dreadful_. Yet, there was something altogether more pleasant too. Warmth, softness, her. He could smell her hair, and feel her head pressed into his chest. He had fallen asleep, and now he regretted it: dreaming, when he could have been savouring these moments of absolute bliss. One of his arms was laying askew, while the other was holding the small of her back, just beneath her shirt. Her skin was supple, a quality he had never taken the time to appreciate before. He resolved to enjoy it often from then on. She seemed to be asleep, the thick sheet of her hair likely blocking out the bright light streaming in from the window. As his thumb began to massage circles into her back, she let out the most delightful murmur. It was only as he continued to touch her ever so gently, that he determined this was a poor strategy. The satisfied little breaths and moans she gave were rapidly hardening his cock, which was pressed right against her tummy. As he pulled to move away, to avoid the inevitable awkwardness, she tightened her arm on his ribs and cuddled closer to him. _She must feel it_. Hermione was stirring now. Less groggy than her companion, she recognised his heady citrus and wood scent, and placed a gentle kiss against his chest. Feeling something unyielding pressed against her stomach, she pulled herself closer, and continued with her trail of morning kisses. He knew she was awake now, and gave up on his embarrassment when he felt her grind ever so slightly against him yet again.

"Good morning little witch," he gasped, as she pressed herself against him with more force. Not able to take any more teasing, he pulled her up the bed and twisted around. He was on top of her now, knees either side of her legs as she lay beneath him. Not an ounce of his weight pressed against her, she longed for more contact as his lips lay against hers chastely. And then less chastely, as he lightly nibbled against her and took entrance to her mouth. His kisses were sensuous, and sent delicious tingles through her mind. His kisses made her feel a little feverish, and she was very glad there was no great call for her focus. His kisses were like promises, promises that this was only the beginning. He leaned back from her, just enough to rest his forehead against hers. It was hard for her to reconcile the hard, cold grey she had known him to have since their first year with the eyes she so admired now: sparkling desire, they were warm and friendly and compassionate. Words she would never have associated with the man, the man who was now hers.

"This better not be how Potter takes care of you. You're mine."

Before she could respond, his lips were on hers again, as he moved one of his hands to her wrist, and soothingly shifted the soft white cotton sleeve up her arm. He knew precisely the reason behind her choice of pyjamas, and he wanted to see. _Needed to see, needed to reassure_. As the scar came into view, he shifted his head away from her indulgent mouth, and instead stroked his fingertips over the scarred letters on her forearm. Her eyes widened, aware of what he had found and she made to sit up.

"I'll never be able to make up for this, for what happened. I need you to know that it is you that is too pure for me. I love you, Hermione." And then he brought her forearm to his mouth and kissed her lightly, right on the scar she had come to despise so much. The scar that was a reminder of her status, of her difference to the rest of her world. It now seemed a little less raw, a little less painful. _He loved her._ She knew it was true. She could feel it. She wasn't ready to say it back. Not aloud, not yet, but he hadn't waited for her answer, he hadn't expected anything. He just spoke his mind, without anticipation of any response.

Looking into her eyes, he leant down to kiss her again, but instead began to trail across her slim neck. It was so delicate, and he kept his touch light enough to tickle her. She arched up into him, aching for more contact as her arms went to his firm back. She had never considered that people had actual, visible muscles there. He had them in spades. He grunted and rocked his hips against her in return, his hand sliding up under her shirt to run over her ribs, her sternum, her scar. He had returned to kissing her deeply, but when the pad of his thumb brushed over her nipple through her bra, Hermione's entire body jolted and she gasped into his mouth. Pulling her shirt over her head took a little gentle manoeuvring, especially past her hair, which had come to be fanned out around her. He turned his attentions to her collarbone, so tantalising, and then the tops of her arms, before enjoying the gradual curve of her cleavage across the same line. His kisses turned to exploratory licks, and soon she was writhing beneath him as his hands continued to caress her neck and jawline. Taking advantage of her sudden arch, he neatly unclasped her bra, and ran his fingernails down her arms as he pulled it away from her. He had never really admired a woman properly, his fumblings had always been immature, but now? Now, he found himself appreciating the way he left a trail of goosebumps in the wake of his fingertips. He found himself perhaps more enamoured with her gasping responsiveness than the sudden allure of her naked breasts. _Perhaps_.

"Merlin, you're beautiful Granger."

It was true. Her skin was pale, and softer than he had ever thought possible, sensitive to his every ministration. He ran his hands beneath her breasts before he dove in, enjoying the way they sat so perfectly atop their ribs. As he could take no more virtuous examination, he dipped his head down and kissed his way toward her nipples, dusky pink and aroused in the cool air. They ached to be suckled, and he was past denying himself. Taking one into his mouth and circling it with his tongue, he moaned around it as she ground into him. _She was determined to throw him off his game, naughty little witch_. As he shifted his attentions to her other breast, enjoying the way her nipples reddened from their treatment in his mouth, and loving the way his saliva looked atop them, she became significantly naughtier. Her thumbs tucked within the waistband of his underwear, tugging it down, she was only momentarily delayed by the obstacle his bulge had become. Not tall enough to push them all the way down, she satisfied her urge by grinding up against his bare cock now. _Infuriating_.

Taking a moment to secure his own nakedness by pulling off the offending garment, he found himself closer to her legs. As her pyjama trousers, the ones he had found so demure the previous evening, joined his on the floor, he enjoy the silky black lace briefs that she had evidently coordinated with her long-discarded bra. He pressed his fingers against her, his breath hot against her stomach as he made a trail of kisses for her, she was wet even through the fabric. As his mouth got lower, and he felt his cheeks warm in preparation for what he was sure would be a delicious start to the day, he was taken by surprise as her legs curled around his thighs and propelled him forward toward her head again. Disrupted from his original plans, and thoroughly distracted by her kissing, the next thing he felt was frustration. Frustration at the tiny lace panties he should have torn off her more quickly as she encouraged him to rub his dripping cock against her core. His hands were back at her ribs, fingers encircling her waist with featherlight touches, and then indulging in teasing pulls and caresses of her full, hot breasts. He had to feel her, had to touch her, as she began to moan more loudly.

He paused for a moment, seeking permission as his hand traced a line to her core once more. He saw no resistance there, and as she actively ground against him, smiling, he dipped beneath the fabric and felt just how much she was enjoying this. _Fuck, he should have insisted on using his mouth, not just his fingers_. Even so, as he teased her clit, he was glad of being able to see the way her eyelids flickered shut as he touched her in just the way she apparently liked, circling just around it. Not too much. Just enough to have her keening for more. And then pushing further, sliding along her slick heat and the sensitive inside of her thighs. She arched into him, and combined with the now gushing moisture, his finger slipped inside of her. She was achingly tight, even with a single digit, and he knew immediately he would not be lasting long with her. He almost didn't dare persevere with another finger, but her wanton moans were addictive. Curling them forward, ever so slightly, he drank her in. Trembling, eyes blurred, lips throbbing; she was unforgettable. Using his thumb to rub and tweak her clit more directly now, she was saying something. Something he couldn't quite catch. _Fuck, she was beautiful_.

"Please, please Draco. I need you. Now," she panted, her hands pulling his shoulders back up, clenching around his fingers in an attempt to grind herself against his hips. She didn't want to wait any longer, she wanted him inside of her. _Needed him_.

Her pleading was more delightful than he had ever imagined, and he'd dedicated an indecent number of thoughts to this over a period of time that went too far back for him to admit freely. He wasn't going to deny her, though he was unconvinced in his ability to avoid embarrassing himself by finishing before she did. He would make it up to her, if he did. His hands were fast now, ripping down the gloriously drenched lace briefs until she was able to kick them off. Then, cradling her head in his hands, he kissed her again. He started to press into her, and Merlin, she was tight. He inhaled sharply, his breath hissing through clenched teeth, and she heard a rumble that sounded like a growl as he fought to control himself. Draco knew he would lose it far too prematurely if he wasn't careful. She already felt deliciously stretched, and full, and altogether rather complete. He still had several inches to go.

Hermione had no such hesitation, she looped her legs back around his pert arse, and pulled him toward her. Enjoying his sudden gasp, she grinned up at him. She felt exquisitely filled, the rich sense of fullness tearing a moan from her throat. He apparently appreciated it, as he began to thrust: long, strong and slow. She had her head tipped slightly backwards, and she was clenching her pussy so deliciously around him that she was almost too much, too tight, and he knew he couldn't hold off much longer. His cock gripped in her tight, wet heat, he slammed into her faster, breaking his own torturous rhythm.

"Want to feel you cum… please, please Draco!"

_Fuck_. His thighs burning, his balls tightening, and her delirious moans all became too much as he jerked into her unevenly before climaxing. She milked him, and he vaguely wondered if he would ever be able to pull out of her. He wouldn't mind if he was forced to remain as he were. In that exact position, watching the high flush of her cheeks and the dark amber of her captivating eyes focused on him.

Finally, he pulled out, and rolled back beside her, holding her as close as possible. They cuddled, as both caught their breath. Nuzzling into him, she kissed him softly, and then began to move away, "I'm going to clean up, be back soon."

He looked aghast at the suggestion, "Oh no, I'm not leaving you alone for a single second. I said I'd take care of you, and so I'll have to accompany you I'm afraid." He offered her his hand, which she took, as he led her into the bathroom. Distracted from her own cautiousness at her nude form being so on display to him by his muscular legs and broad-shouldered frame; a tingle spread from her fingertips that were so perfectly held between his, up her arm and throughout her body. She felt so alive, so right, so in the present.

She nimbly sidestepped him to twist the taps of the shower, and felt herself burn under the heat of his gaze. As they waited for the shower to heat up, he was kissing her again, his lips gentle and his tongue exploring as though it was the very first time. Her hands explored his broad, lean chest, enjoying the firmness beneath her fingertips. She followed her hands with her mouth, placing the lightest of kisses across his jawline, his collarbone and down across his abdomen. Much to his surprise, he felt her hands caress the tops of his thighs. He knew what happened next. _Bewitching girl_. It was the last thing he had expected her to ever want to do, after everything she'd been through. But no, that was most definitely her hot little tongue pressed against the head of his hard cock, pushing into him as if to elicit more cum. He groaned, as she looked up at him with her bright eyes and ran her tongue along his shaft. _No_. She hadn't orgasmed yet. _He was not going to fail her_.

Lifting her up into his arms, she seemed affronted for a moment until he pulled her into the shower with him. Before she could return to her knees however, he was distracting her with his drugging kisses as his hands roamed across her shoulders and teased their way down her spine. His hands were on her stomach. Her breathing hitched, her most private place, she almost wanted to push away from their tender caress.

"Can't wait until I fill you with our child, Granger. You will be impossibly beautiful. But for now, I'm going to taste you, taste what we are together." His voice was enticingly rough, raw in its honesty, as he spoke between licks along her delicate neck.

Before she could react to his words, she was distracted as he ran his hands over her hips, and how he would have liked to squeeze them until he had her riding his face, but they felt so brittle, so fragile that he couldn't allow himself to bruise her. Instead, he trailed his hands around to her round arse, where they whispered over her, and then kneaded as he licked his way down her neck and placed himself on his knees between her thighs. He looked up at her, and saw her eyelids already squeezed shut, anticipation and self-consciousness and lust. He'd take care of all of those.

He could smell her. Tart sweetness, that particular scent that made him feel so alive yet he couldn't quite put his finger on, mixed with his own salty musk. _It was heavenly_. He was glad she had her eyes shut, because he knew he had to look animalistic in that moment. His body flushed, convulsed almost, when he realised he was about to taste her. He didn't care if he embarrassed himself again, not here, it would all wash away after all. He knew it was likely, just from the way his already hardened cock was weeping for her. His breath was hot on her exposed flesh, and just as she was about to start worrying about what she looked like, about her smell, about the fact his cum was still in her, she felt his face pressed against her. The ridge of his nose pressed deliciously against her clit as his tongue was broad and flat, lapping against every part of her. His hands were gripping her bum from the thighs now, firm and warm as they massaged her. Finally, as his nose rubbed fervently against her tender clit, he dipped his tongue inside of her, keen to taste as much of her as he could. She was mewing for him, and had one of her hands threading through his hair gently. He could feel his balls tightening a little: she had no idea how delicious she was. She was so tight around his tongue; he was immediately reminded of how she had clenched around his cock. She was soaking, dripping into his mouth: her own sweetness balancing his own release, and had he drowned in her, he'd have died a happy man.

Hermione's breath grew quicker as she felt his tongue tease its way toward her clit, a shifting maze of frustrating concentric circles, pleasuring her just short of an orgasm. Finally, his tongue settled softly against her most sensitive place, and his lips encircled it. Moaning wantonly, she leaned forward into her arms that rested against the wall, and dared look down. His eyes were open, dark with lust and by the way the vibrations from his pleased hums was driving her wild, he was enjoying this himself. Relaxing into his rhythmic sucking, she trembled as she felt one of his hands glide from her arse to her folds, and a finger push into the channel he had spent so long tonguing. As he began to lick at her clit, pressed between his lips, and his finger curled inside of her, she thought she might collapse as pleasure ensnared every one of her senses. It was, very almost, too much. As soon as he felt her come off balance, he shifted his position, but remained on his knees. He supported her weight easily, and shifted his mouth back to replace his finger as he tasted every drop of her sweet nectar while she whimpered with the strength of her orgasm.

As her thighs settled, and she felt more grounded above him, he made to stand up. He had come himself, at some point, so focused on her he had barely felt it. Grateful for the high-pressure stream of water that had washed away his release, he took her in his arms, and kissed her. She had the loveliest blush on her cheeks, and he almost got directly back on his knees so he could make sure she always looked so richly satisfied. Hermione sighed into his kiss; her chin tilted up to capture his lips. She tasted herself on him, as their tongues met softly under the stream of water. His arms felt so strong, she was so safe wrapped around her back, and for the first time in forever she felt beautiful; he had made her feel truly beautiful. Eyes shut, held close to his heart within his embrace, she could admit in the safety of her own mind that she was falling, falling fast, for Draco Malfoy.


	35. Butterbeer

Butterbeer

Potter Cottage was in a state of utter chaos. It was the only possible way to describe it. There was more furniture than physical space, there had to be. It was the only explanation for the madhouse it had turned into, and Hermione once again cursed Mo Shafiq for his all too beautiful plans that had her agreeing to everything. Perhaps it would have been better to request he fit the furniture too, he surely would have suggested fewer bulky, though admittedly attractive, items. Kreacher had already lost it with Winky, and the two were refusing to work with one another despite Hermione's attempts to mediate a peace agreement between the two. She had given up when on the fourth sit down, Kreacher had become cruder than she thought possible about butterbeer bottles and orifices. Head in her hands, she wasn't sure diplomacy was for her, and was beginning to question her ability to succeed at the Ministry if she couldn't resolve a small argument between two generally friendly creatures. _Well, one friendly creature and one Kreacher_. She had heard quite enough, and sought a tactical retreat, determining that it would be easier if she and Draco took a greater role in organising the house. Draco had reacted about as well as could be expected, flummoxed by the idea that she was allowing a petty squabble between two servants to force them into labour. A single raised eyebrow had been enough for him to decide he didn't wish to continue that line of argument, and he had hastily set about manoeuvring bookshelves into place in the study. Having completed that with several well-placed flicks of his wand, and a subtle engorgement charm to ensure the mahogany shelves were elegantly fitted from floor to ceiling, he wandered through to the landing and took a few moments to observe the scene below.

Hermione was tackling, or perhaps more accurately wrestling, with a well-worn sofa that she had retrieved from her beaded bag. Having expanded as soon as it was taken out, it was likely about four times her size, and she was resolutely shoving it toward the living room. She had bent at the waist, apparently keen to do herself an injury for which Madam Pomfrey would lecture her for, and her face had reddened with concentration and heat from the effort. He supposed that she hadn't yet considered shrinking it, putting it in position and then returning it to its normal size. Or simply delegating the task to one of the elves. As she gave another huge heave to the hefty sofa, and her hand wiped away a bead of sweat from her forehead, he decided that Potter better be very appreciative of her efforts. Even if they were entirely unnecessary. Shaking off the ridiculous urge to go and help her, saving the day, he determined that he should take advantage of her relative distraction and headed to the master bathroom to corner Winky. _This would be the last time his little witch would be moving furniture_.

Finding Winky completing the plumbing for a claw foot tub that he knew would fit Hermione's taste perfectly, he took a second to appreciate Mo's ability to capture the atmosphere of the modest cottage while also providing something a little more luxurious to the traditional architecture. It was impossible to deny the talent of the man; it was little wonder his mother had sworn by him.

"Winky. Hermione is moving furniture herself, without magic, because apparently the prospect of manual labour has made her forget she is a witch. If I give you a bottle of butterbeer once the cottage is fully fitted, will you work with Kreacher without further argument?" Her bulbous brown eyes lit up, and her bat-like ears turned up slightly in excitement. _Drunken creature. _He could not believe he had fallen so far that he was bribing a house elf to be… a house elf. His father would have conniptions had he seen this. Deciding that was all the more reason to do so it, he followed up his offer with an additional incentive, "If it means Hermione doesn't break another sweat today, I'll give you two bottles. One once the house is done, and another at any time of your choosing."

The little elf nodded rapidly, her round nose glowing red as she began choking on her squeaky words, "Miss Hermione is needing Winky's help! Winky be helping her Sir, Winky be making sure that she stays in one place, that the house be finished on time. Thank you, sir, for Winky's butterbeer!" With a crack, and a distant yelp, he knew that the elf had taken over with the sofa and that Hermione was likely going to search for another task.

He intervened before that was possible, heading down and twisting her into his arms, laughing at her gasp. Leading her up the stairs by her hand, he took care as he walked backwards not to trip, grinning at her as they climbed. Her eyes were bright, she was glowing with happiness. Little adventures and big smiles, she was beautiful. Finally standing on the landing, he guided her down the hallway to Teddy's nursery and pushed open the door. Allowing her to step in, he wrapped his arms around her waist as he stood behind her. She had a full view of the room, and if her inhale was anything to go by, it surpassed her expectations. The room had the same hardwood flooring as the rest of the house, but was adorned with a large circular rug made up of small vibrantly coloured woollen balls. It was… bolder, than traditional wizarding furnishings, but it certainly met her request for bright colours. There was a wardrobe, a dresser and a cot set with the finest cotton sheets. Along the seams ran tiny werewolves, as thought they were simply frolicking around the green forests. Shafiq had done a tremendous job with storage too, with ample tidies and bins ready to be filled with toys.

"Do you think there is something missing?" He grinned, as he ran his hands down her waist.

She laughed, warmly, and began to tease him, "If that's a veiled reminder of your apparent desire to see me pregnant, then definitely not yet. We can't steal Teddy's room."

Her words were unexpected, he had thought the answer would be obvious, but apparently his commitment was strong in her mind. He was rather pleased with a 'not yet,' clearly he wasn't the only one thinking in the long term. Focusing on not running his hands across her stomach too much, he slipped past her to show her into one of the woven baskets. Within was a set of blocks with an alphabet she was familiar with. "As beautiful as the thought of our family is, and it is a wonderful image, I wanted to show you a toy I purchased. It seemed a bit unfair to the boy, to have nothing here yet. I thought you might approve?"

She gasped, plucking out several of the birch wood blocks onto the rug. On each was a colourfully painted carved rune, its symbol, its numerological form, and Latin representation. It was an incredibly considerate, well planned gift for Teddy. Harry would have kittens when he realised she was going to encourage this sort of learning, and while she knew that would provide a lot of childish joy for Draco, she was overwhelmed by the effort he must have put in to procure a toy that surely had close to no demand. As she felt him sit behind her, she eased herself between his legs such that she could be close to him while she examined each cube in turn. His arms snaked their way across her stomach, and she allowed herself to relax into him. While she wasn't yet entirely comfortable with touch there, she had an inkling as to what he thought of her, what he imagined when he caressed the concave line of her abdomen, and she found herself able to accept it. _Accept him_.

He had no idea what she was spelling out, no doubt she was achieving great academic heights with the bricks, but took a great deal of delight from her obvious thrill. She was settled perfectly between his thighs, and while he had noticed her split second of hesitation at his hands on her tummy, the fact that she took a breath and continued with her task was reassuring. His little witch was trusting him with something so precious: her vulnerability.

"Had I known you would enjoy them this much, I'd have gotten you your own set," he murmured into her ear. As she laughed, her neck elongated as she tipped her head back just a little, and he stole a few kisses from her. "What are you spelling out?"

She looked down at the neat line she had created, and realised it would be meaningless to him. Leaning forward slightly, she ran her fingertips across each rune as she explained. "This one here, is Wunjo. It means joyous, or pleasing. The next one is Gebo, meaning gift. This final one here, is Berkana, which alludes to fresh starts. Together, it means that fresh starts are cherished gifts." She wiggled a little, as his fingertips whispered along her legs, before continuing, "This was a really thoughtful gift, Draco."

He kissed her neck again, "He's my cousin, of sorts, isn't he?"

"Your first cousin once removed, yes. He's really sweet. Do you… are you good with children?"

He paused for a moment, "I don't really know any. My mother had no inclination to give me a sibling. I want to be. I want to be better than my father was. I… I know my comments this morning might seem a little premature, a little out of place, but I'm serious about you. I meant every word of it. The biggest thing my father drummed into my head for years was the need to have an heir, and that has stuck with me. I didn't mean to put pressure on you. All I meant is that when I look at you, when I talk to you, when I hold you… I want the opportunity for a happier family with you." Before she could interrupt, he continued, his arms wrapped over her stomach protectively once more, "And I know, it'll be a long time before you decide you're ready. I respect that. I'm excited for you, for everyone, to see what you achieve until then. I'm proud of you already, and I'll be supporting you. Having a baby won't mean that your achievements end either, not if you don't want them to, I… I would like to do things very differently. I would not be opposed to staying at home myself, if I am actually capable of looking after a child."

"Well, I guess Teddy is the perfect start. After all, I have no doubt you'll be spending a lot of time here, with me. I'm not worried about whether you have the capability to love, Draco. Not at all. I can feel it. Though I'm not sure your father meant for you to produce an heir with a Mud..."

"Don't say that," he sighed, loosening his grip as he thought. "I don't care what he wants. My desire to have a child with you isn't about that. Even if the Malfoy name ended with me, I just want to share something with you. I feel like I have to pinch myself, every day, the idea that you're giving me a chance. Giving me a fresh start."

She had twisted around as he spoke, excruciatingly aware of how open he was being, how raw these thoughts and emotions were, and her heart roared as she considered how privileged she was to be allowed such an honest insight into his feelings. Bringing a hand to his jaw, caressing him ever so softly, she spoke, "It's not surprising, not to those who know me. You just didn't. We didn't get a chance to know each other. Things were different. But… but that was before. We get to make our own rules now."

He lowered his mouth to hers, very much liking the sound of making their own rules together, and kissed her. As his hands cradled the small of her back, and she ran her fingertips through his platinum locks, she raised herself a little to raise her legs around his thighs and curl them around his strong back. Every inch of him felt so firm, so masculine. As she felt him lean forward, sweeping her backwards onto the rug, she allowed herself a teasing press against him. His growled response sent shivers down her spine, until her back collided with a sharp edge and she yelped. Eyes widened, he sat back and pulled her up and into his arms as he stood.

"Fuck. Granger, are you okay? Let me see." His voice was anxious, eyes wide, concerned that his urges had hurt her.

She smiled, "It's okay, it's just the blocks. I can't show you if you're carrying me!" He made no move to put her down, deciding he rather enjoyed having his little witch in his arms, legs wrapped tantalisingly around his waist. "Mm, I'm feeling much better already." Backing her into the wall, he pressed closer into her body, seizing her mouth and urgently pressing his tongue into her mouth and stealing her breath in the most delicious way. Their heated embrace, however, was interrupted just a moment later by a loud pop.

_Bloody house elves._ As Draco placed Hermione back to the ground as gently as possible, and they smoothed out their clothes, Winky looked at the floor avoiding their eyes as much as possible. While Hermione would usually frown at the submissive little elf, and worry about quite how many times she was subject to viewing inappropriate behaviour, she had little ground to stand on as someone about to christen a nursery without thinking of who else was in the cottage, and merely waited for her to speak, face warm with embarrassment. Chancing a peripheral glance at Draco, she noticed he looked more amused than embarrassed or even the irritation she had anticipated, and blushed yet harder when he shot her a cheeky wink.

"Miss Hermione, Sir. Winky is very sorry to disturb you's. Winky will be punishing herself soundly when we returns to Hogwarts."

At Hermione's panicked look, he intervened, "Winky. You are forbidden from punishing yourself. You had something to tell us?"

"Yes sir," the elf finally looked up, eyes wide and ears pushed back subserviently in what was as close to a cower as possible, "Winky and Kreacher have finished fitting all the furnitures to the cottage Sir, Miss. We can helps with the clothings and books when you have them."

"You're done? That was fast. Well, elf, you may take one butterbeer from my trunk at Hogwarts. I know how many there are, so don't try and take any more than that." As the grinning elf disapparated with another loud pop, he felt a heated glare from Hermione. He quickly realised that his bribery should have remained a secret, when she began a lecture on the link between abandonment and substance abuse in the Elf community. _Merlin, she was beautiful when she was riled up_. It took every ounce of self-restraint not to return her to their previous position, but he was intelligent enough to recognise that now was most definitely not the time to seduce her. Or perhaps just too cowardly.

"I saw you pushing furniture yourself. You could have gotten hurt. Not like you've never been underhand to protect people you care about, is it Granger?" He teased.

She smiled, unable to refute his logic, but quickly bit her lip and looked rather guilty. With the house complete, it wouldn't be long until they left the wards of the cottage. Was she confident enough in her Fidelus Charm? Or would she have to obliviate him again? _It was to protect Harry_. They wandered through the rooms, admiring the quality of the furniture that Mo had selected for the home, and how seamlessly it seemed to fit. She could imagine Harry having grown up there, had things been different. She could imagine Teddy growing up there, because things had landed as they were. It would be a happy home, after all this time. It would be the home she suspected the Potter's had intended it to be. They would make sure of it.

As they stepped out into the garden, she paused, taking Draco's hands and thinking back to how hard he'd worked to eradicate all the Moonseed, and her allergy to it. She owed him the truth. "Draco, I need to tell you something I did to you, last time we came here. I know you might be quite angry, and that… well, that's reasonable." He looked at her, eyebrows furrowed as he tried to think of what she meant, "I have certain security wards in place, but I've never cast them before on a permanent dwelling and I'm not sure I've done it correctly. Last time, I obliviated your knowledge of where the house is after we left, because I was… because I am worried that my charms won't work and there is the potential for you to accidentally, or under duress, reveal the cottage's location. I should have asked your permission, and I didn't. I just acted to protect Harry, but I could have done that with your consent. I… I want to do the same today. I don't know how to properly test my charms."

She was looking down at the ground contritely now, and he squeezed her hands gently and kept his tone even as he spoke. "I know. I could tell something was missing, and when we arrived earlier, you had to bring me through the wards again. I've been here before, so should've been able to walk through with you. We'll find a way to show you that your charms have worked, as they always do, because I understand that you're worried about security on the famous Harry Potter's house. I've seen, up close, what people have wanted to do to him. You get to be paranoid about his safety. Always. Just like we will be paranoid about yours. As for whether you should have told me? You did this time. My past will take more than my own lifetime to move past, I know that. I'm a peace with that." He kissed her forehead gently, before continuing, "You trust, and respect me so much more now than you did last time we were here. And yes, I know you already did then. That growth, that improvement, it's important to me. So yes, obliviate me. Every time until you feel comfortable, even if you never are."

He wasn't sure how he would feel if he was an elderly wizard, still being obliviated by his wife every time they left the cottage, but he suspected they'd be able to prove her mastery of the security wards long before then. As they exited the cottage, he pulled her behind a car for some privacy, and pulled her wand arm up toward his head, showing her it was okay. She gripped her wand firmly, and once again skilfully probed his mind for the moment she gave him access to Potter Cottage. She kept her footsteps soft, yet this time, she was almost corralled into a memory, as though she was hopping along a stepping stone path.

She could see herself in the stands, felt the determined rush of a healing spell come from his wand, the way he bit his lip to avoid asking her questions. _Curious girl, she had interested him_. Then they were pressed against one another against the Hospital Wing doors, and she felt his restraint as she pressed against him, stomach against his cock, to evade detection. _Fierce girl, she had drawn him to her_. Then she was held down on her stool in Potions, and he couldn't understand why she wriggled as Potter wreaked revenge on Zabini. Using that, that word. A word he wished he had never learnt. _Stubborn girl, she infuriated him. _Then her tiny hands were holding onto his palm, pressed over her eyes as he lay beside her. _Vulnerable girl, she scared him_. Then she was holding him like he'd never been held, on the Quidditch pitch, making his heart dance and his brain yearn for her. _Loving girl, she soothed him_. Then she kissed him, in his arms, in a bookshop. Everything was so perfect, in that moment, she was a puzzle piece he had finally captured. Her lips were soft, and her breath was sweet peppermint. Her eyes were frozen in his memory. _Beautiful girl, she mesmerised him_. Then it was Christmas Day, and he was opening the crystal vials and ingredients for his Healing apprenticeship. He held in his emotions, but in his memory, he was bursting like it was the first gift he'd ever received. It was, in a way. It was the first thoughtful one he had gotten. _Kind girl, she made him feel valued._ Then they were in the shower. Her flushed cheeks were the most precious thing he had ever seen, even as the shower continued to pelt them with a stream of hot water. On his knees, he could drown happily, watching her like that. _His girl, she had him spellbound_. _Always_. Finally, it was her hand. Fragile, tiny and beautiful in his mind's eye, guiding him through into the garden of the cottage.

"Obliviate."

A slight pause, as he came out of his daze, and he continued, "Where are we meeting Williamson, anyway?" Draco asked, taking her hand in his as they began to walk down the lane. At her slightly guilty expression, he grinned, "Ah, are we ditching him? The Minister would not approve, Granger."

Sighing, she looked up at him, "I know, I know. But I don't like him. He's unpleasant, and I'm quite capable of defending myself. Especially with you in tow."

He tried not to show her how much his heart skipped with even the idea that she trusted him to protect her. It was true, he doubted there was anyone left on the loose that would pose an issue for her, and he certainly wouldn't want to wind up on the wrong end of her wand. _Or fist. Again_. He certainly wasn't going to waste time defending Williamson. He hadn't forgiven the man for his comments in Hogsmede before Christmas, nor his uselessness in Diagon Alley. He could accept his time as a Death Eater being held against him, it was well deserved, he knew, but to treat her as someone beneath him? Unforgivable. Gritting his teeth before his thoughts came tumbling out and brought down the mood, he instead focused on the winding cobbled roads of Godric's Hollow. It really was a rather beautiful village.

"Is there a town near the Manor?"

Sometimes, the way she introduced question made him feel like he was sitting with his nefarious Legilimens of a Godfather. "There are towns in Wiltshire, I suppose. I've never visited any, mother preferred to have things brought to the house. Diagon Alley once a year when we started school, and we spent a lot of time abroad. France, mainly."

It sounded terribly lonely, and his failure to meet her eyes as he spoke meant he knew it too. "I can't imagine your father was one for day trips. Did… did your mother spend all day with you, or did you have a favourite house elf to take care of you?"

He smiled softly, yet the grip on her hand grew tighter, "An elf. Her name was Dipsy. She was a Black family elf; my mother didn't trust the ones in the Manor. Too much influence from my father, I suspect. Too much risk of losing her to one of my father's rages, had she been under the Malfoy wards. She used to let me play, run around, chase me as best she could. Let me chase her back. She was there the first time I rode a broom; the first time I lost a tooth; the first time my father beat me." He knew what her next question would be, and took a deep breath as he determined to answer it as quickly as possible, "The Dark Lord killed her. After… after you escaped. Said they weren't to be trusted."

She stopped in her tracks. Turning to him, she looked horrified. Her brown eyes were darkened and wet with tears, threatening to escape. "Draco, I'm so sorry. It wasn't… we didn't plan it that way. We didn't plan to get caught at all. I am so, so sorry that you lost Dipsy, that you lost any elves. I didn't think. I… once I recovered, we just buried Dobby, and didn't think anymore. I'm sorry." Not for the first time lately, she realised that while she had been away with Harry and Ron, she had put far less thought than usual into the repercussions of her actions. First, Mafalda Hopkirk. Now, the blood of what was surely a small army of house elves on her hands. She knew that their mission was important. She knew that in war, people die. She knew that their visit to Malfoy Manor had not been their fault. Yet, despite all the ifs and buts, her life had effectively been traded for the lives of dozens of house elves. Elves that she had argued, for years, ought to be treated as equals. And she knew it was justified: they had won, they had secured the freedom of their world. She felt a fraud. Her ability to prioritise her morals made her question them altogether. Especially when her decision making, when her actions, had taken away the closest thing to a warm, maternal figure her boyfriend had likely ever had. She would not forget that Snape had rather conveniently left out the details of their deaths.

"Don't ever be sorry for surviving, for winning this. Please. You wouldn't have lived to see the world he created, but I would've been forced to endure it. Dipsy would have died for my happiness, I know that. You've given me a new chance at life, and I'm lucky. The Dark Lord's side were not as accommodating to those they captured when they overthrew the Ministry, were they? Were we?"

She shushed him. It was hard enough to reconcile the man she knew with the side his parents had fought on, let alone consider that he was an active Death Eater. Kingsley's words had played in her mind, of course, just as she knew they were intended to. At some point, she would likely learn more, but she had no desire to hear it all at once. Draco was a good man to her. To her friends. That was enough, enough for a foundation of something more. As they made their way up the high street, a familiar scent hit her. She motioned for him to wait for her, and took some Muggle money from her purse as she entered a quaint, Georgian bow windowed bakery. Emerging victorious a few moments later, she held out the thin paper bag to him. Taking it from her hands; he reached in and palmed the flaky pastry in his hand before easing his thumb down the centre to split it in two. As grains of sugar rubbed against his hand, he was sure she'd made an excellent suggestion. Passing her the slightly smaller half, knowing she would protest far more vocally if he didn't, he smiled at her, "Split this with me? It's an Eccles cake."

She burrowed her little hand back into his and took a bite. Her smile seemed wider, her eyes brighter. He was glad this bakery was so close to her home. He would be visiting frequently to get more of these treats in future, if they would always make her smile like that. Tucking into his own half, he understood the attraction. While the centre looked a little too much like a pile of squashed flies, it was rich with butter and the crunch of the sugar contrasted deliciously with the rich soft currants. Best of all, she was eating. He would acquire some currency on his next trip to Gringotts, if it meant the ability to get her delicious treats. _Muggles got rather a lot of things right._


	36. Promises

Promises

A/N: This chapter references graphic violence, specifically scenes of torture. You may wish to skip certain sections of conversation, marked with asterisks. This will remove some context from the story, for which I apologise, but it is important for the narrative arc.

When a tearful Hermione Granger had emerged into her office from the fireplace, Professor McGonagall had immediately requested the help of the house elves in locating her friends. As she settled the girl down, poured her a cup of fragrant Earl Grey, and set about determining precisely how Kingsley Shacklebolt had upset her favourite student; there was an almighty crash at her door. Forehead wrinkled, and mouth pruned, she turned toward the scrum of young men that seemed to be fighting to arrive first. Jet black, ginger and platinum blonde; it quickly became clear just what the problem was. A powerful shove from Ron had Draco's head cracking audibly against the limestone wall, and it was only the intervention of Harry physically standing between the two that stopped the Slytherin from seriously hexing the boy. All wands drawn now, Hermione's gentle cries distracted them from what would otherwise have been an immature and painful duel. Malfoy apparently remembered why he had begun fighting to begin with: Hermione was upset.

Taking long strides, he scooped her into a cuddle. Taking to the comfortable armchair with her perched on his lap, face buried into his broad shoulders, he rubbed her back soothingly. This raised the eyebrows of the Headmistress, who was unaccustomed to both shows of such affection within her private domain and any such fondness whatsoever between these two students in particular. It served to get every portrait present whispering: "I knew it! I told you so!" "Even the Malfoy's are blood traitors now, it seems!" and "He must have slipped a potion in her tea!" Most of all, however, it garnered a furious reaction from Ron, who apparently had failed to notice the budding relationship between the two. Mouth hung open rather obnoxiously, for a few long seconds, the boy looked as though he had been petrified at an inopportune moment. When the shouting started, everyone wished he had been.

"Leave her alone, Ferret! Harry, help me get him off her." When Harry didn't immediately rush to drag her off the man, Ron rounded on him, "What are you doing? Help me!"

As Ron proceeded to approach Hermione, arms reaching out to grab her, a sharp raise of Malfoy's foot to meet his shin had him yowling in livid pain. While the Headmistress sought to intervene, Harry stood in front of her to protect her from any collateral damage, and instead pulled back on Ron's collar.

"Ron, back off. She's safe with him, just look." His words of reason fell on deaf ears, as Ron spun back toward the couple and drank in the sight of his long-sworn enemy placing a soft kiss on his ex-girlfriend's brow. Swearing now, he squirmed determinedly away in an attempt to pry her from him, convinced that her tears were confusing her into the man's embrace.

"Mr. Weasley, such foul language is unacceptable. Please refrain from using it within these walls. Now while we are all thankful for your attendance, it seems that Miss Granger is adequately catered for. Perhaps it's best you take your leave before you earn yourself a detention with Mr. Filch."

As Ron regarded the Headmistress with an incredulous glare, it was clear she was very serious about the threat of detention. "You know what, Hermione? You've made your choice. Don't ever expect me to be around for you again!"

"She didn't expect you this time, Weaselbee. She's got us, and I don't see what you bring to the table," Malfoy snapped, his hands still soothing Hermione along her spine and at the back of her neck.

The door slammed shut, and the fading echoes of his footsteps on the flagstone steps were the only sound for several seconds, when Harry finally sprung to action. Picking up Hermione's discarded satchel, he turned to Professor McGonagall and gave her a warm smile, "Thank you for getting us, and thank you for making her tea, Professor. We'll take her back to her room. I've got her bag, Malfoy."

As Draco gently guided Hermione to stand, he took her hand and wrapped his arm around her back; glowering toward his smirking Godfather as they left the office with a brief, polite nod at the former Head of Gryffindor. He had never taken to the woman, not really, she had always seemed to have it in for him. He had felt targeted due to his house affiliation, and his surname, but he could tell the woman wanted the best for Hermione. _The best that was most certainly not Weasley_. He had relished the moment, if he were perfectly honest, of the woman removing one of her own from her office in favour of himself. He would not have allowed himself to be distracted from comforting his little witch, and he had been ready to defend his right to be there, he couldn't help but smile at how things had changed.

As the three left the office, McGonagall collapsed into the armchair Hermione had recently vacated. Had she not had so much to think about, she would have allowed the candle flames to extinguish and summoned a thick shawl for the night. Perhaps the previous year had knocked the fight out of her, she mused, as she noticed the portraits staring at her. "Well? What do you think of that?" When her question went unanswered, she snapped at them, "May I remind you that you are honour bound to give service to the present Head of Hogwarts? I want to know what just happened, and how you would have handled it. Albus, stop with that infernal twinkling. It grates."

As Albus' portrait abruptly adopted a more taciturn expression, it was Phineas who was first to speak, "Well, Headmistress, I care very little for the girl. She seems to be causing an array of issues…"

"Shut up Black! You choose to wilfully misinterpret the question, and why not? After all, Miss Granger did manage to trap you in a handbag for months." Snape snapped, after which he quickly moderated his tone, hastening to fix the crack in his mask. "I would not, of course, have coddled the girl. However, I think removing Weasley was the appropriate measure. He has long been pawing her inappropriately. He abandoned her- them in the forest last year. He is not to be trusted. Unlikely though it seems, Mr. Potter is equipped to care for her with the help of my own student."

As the two portraits descended into squabbling, McGonagall contemplated the relationship between Hermione and the Malfoy boy. It was so incredibly unlikely, she hoped that her protégé was not at risk from the young man who had more than proven himself quite the dangerous actor. After everything she had been through, for Miss Granger to have her heart broken would be offensive in itself, let alone to have it done by someone she had given such a second chance to. She cast her mind back to the Hospital Wing. It had been such a defining moment, the way the boy had absolutely refused to let go of her hand, he seemed so genuine.

It was then that Albus decided to pipe up, "Severus, since when have you cared about who 'paws' Miss Granger?"

"I do not care! I merely notice these things. Weasley is an incompetent fool who must be observed at all times within the Potions lab, lest we all be subject to an exploding cauldron. I certainly do not watch her any more than I would any other talented student."

"She's a Mud-… Muggleborn, she can't possibly be that talented…"

The Headmistress sensed that the arguments were not going to cease there as she saw Snape's dark eyes glitter perilously, and quietly crept out of the door while she still had a chance to get a good night of sleep.

Hermione had been silent, shivering a little, as they walked. She looked young, very young, with the stains of tear tracks on her cheeks and her reddened, tired eyes. Now, tucked between the two men on the sofa, her head against Harry's raised knees while Draco idly massaged her feet, she finally managed to explain what had her so upset.

"Rosier presented their opening arguments for Blaise's trial today…" she spoke, her voice delicate, as if fearful of breaking it, "He… he presented me as a willing partner, and when we were found, I changed my mind and said I was forced. Said I'm a masochist, a s…sexual submissive. It's a closed court… but the evidence isn't sealed after a trial. So the Prophet… everyone will hear what they say about me."

As she began to cry again, Harry hugged her close, his green eyes darkened and his jaw hardened as he looked at Draco. _They had to do something_. He was pleased to see a similarly determined look from Malfoy, whose hands held her calves as he stared back at him with conviction. _They would do something. They would stop this_. As the two comforted her, assured her that it wouldn't end up in the papers, they would take care of her, she was finally lulled into a tearful sleep. The two men sat in silence, enjoying the calmness of her presence. It had been a long evening, and both were lost in thought. It was pitch black outside when Draco finally looked up from her serene expression, suddenly as if he'd made a decision.

"I'll carry her to bed, and we can change her clothes? She won't sleep well in robes."

Harry hesitated, struck with disbelief in what he was about to suggest, "You don't have to go, if you like. It's been a long day, and I know she'd like to have you close when she wakes up. If you're able, maybe we could stay on the sofa with her tonight?"

Draco looked at the man. He could tell the offer was earnest, and difficult to have said out loud. He had a rush of respect for the man, almost enough to make him question his decision. "She'll be more comfortable in bed. It's okay, I'll come back before she wakes in the morning, be here for her."

Surprised, Harry couldn't bring himself to pass comment. He felt almost ridiculous for having offered to sleep in such close quarters to the man. Yet, he was even more shocked by the man's rejection. As he stumbled blindly to fetch her pyjamas, he watched as Malfoy gently laid her in the bed, kissing her nose lightly, and casting a warming charm on the duvet before casting a Multicorfors Spell to alter her robes into temporary long-sleeved cotton pyjamas, complete with small bows at the legs. With a quiet nod to Harry, Draco left the room quietly and made his way back to his dormitory.

He was the only Slytherin awake when he returned. The others had long gone to sleep, and for that he was extremely grateful, for he had not decided whether he would sleep tonight. He had spent little time with his housemates this year, and was grateful for the reprieve his discovery of Hermione had granted him. To many of his fellow returning snakes, he was a traitor to the light. He had ran, ran for his life, while others had maintained their ideals. They thought him a coward, a man who sacrificed their shared ideologies to save his own skin. Others were still angry he had brought their house into further disrepute, invited Death Eaters into the castle and subjected them to a Hogwarts of Horrors last year. He was, perhaps, the most disliked person in the history of the house. For a man who had spent so much of his life craving popularity and respect, it had been a painful fall from grace. _Perhaps… just perhaps, he could redeem himself_.

As he bent into his trunk, he retrieved the elegant mahogany box, the duplicate of what was within his father's cell. It was this very bit of magic that had delivered him the hatred of his housemates. _Screw them_. He began to run his fingers along the oleaceae leaf carvings, the very representation of his family. Standing up, he tucked it back within his trunk, and closed the lid. He had made a decision. Tucking a quill into his pocket, he left the room. He had a letter to send.

Draco Malfoy was not the only inhabitant of the castle who remained awake. Harry couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong. Something was not sitting right. How could he possibly reconcile the Malfoy who had clung to Hermione's hand, unwavering in his determination to hold her close despite the protestations of senior members of staff, and the man who had taken the first opportunity to leave her tonight. _What had changed? _Hermione seemed more content than ever. For the first time in a long time, she seemed genuinely happy. She wasn't hurting herself; she was even eating a little more, enough to sustain herself through the days at least. _He had to know. He had to be aware if Malfoy was about to jeopardise all of her progress_. Silently slipping out of bed, he pulled the map out of his bedside drawer and whispered, "I solemnly swear I am up to no good." Malfoy was nowhere near the dungeons. He was in the West tower, climbing, climbing toward the Ravenclaw Common Room. He was sneaking out of the castle. Stealing a look at Hermione, she was fast asleep. Harry grabbed his invisibility cloak, threw it over himself, and ran to catch up. _He would find out precisely what was happening_.

Dashing through Ariana's portrait after him, Harry was surprised when the platinum blonde man stopped short of leaving the bar. He had expected to lose him during apparition, but apparently, he was at his final destination. As Malfoy walked out into the bar, Harry remained hidden in the living room, pressed against the door peering through the crack by the hinges. A loud crack, and a man whose face was dark even in the candlelight. It was Rosier, he recognised the hair. Brushed back, quiffed brown hair. The air was stale, the peace fragile in the darkness. And such darkness it was. The dim candlelight from a single lantern served only to illuminate the haunting alabaster of Malfoy's skin, and did nothing to dispel the crackling wickedness of the men. It was unlike anything Harry had ever known, there was always a light, always a contrast, always a hero. Not there. It was a race to the bottom. A race he had a horse in. How things had changed. A trail of heavier footsteps and the clink of a bottle. Rosier had fetched drinks. _Surely Malfoy wouldn't stoop so low as to drink with this man? Not with what he's doing to Hermione, he wouldn't, he had changed. _Yet the familiar slug of a measure of whisky and a tinkle of glasses later proved him wrong. He slumped down to the floor, and brought out an extendable ear from his robe. He needed to hear this. Every word, committed to memory.

"How's business?"

Harry couldn't believe what he was hearing. Had this been happening all along? Malfoy and Rosier, meeting for drinks and talking shop? His stomach sank. Hermione was going to be devastated. She had trusted him, given him every opportunity to turn over a new leaf. It was a betrayal from which she might never recover, not after everything. Wilting, he couldn't bring himself to leave, as much as he wanted to. He just wanted to know how deeply Malfoy was involved with Rosier. _Maybe he could talk to Kingsley, save Hermione the humiliation of dealing with him herself_.

"Business is good. Your father paid me very well, despite being found guilty."

A most inelegant snort, followed by Draco's voice again, "A lawyer who only represents the Sacred Twenty-Eight must make significantly more galleons now that prosecuting us is in vogue."

"We're not so different, you and I. Neither of us will bite the hand that feeds us while the stock of food is good."

Draco's tone was soft, but beneath lay a dangerous undercurrent. Something angry within him was roused. "If you're so blind that you think the Dark Lord's vision was playing out so well, then do not do me the disservice of comparing the two of us."

Another clink of glass, as more alcohol was poured. Neither man spoke for several minutes.

"It wasn't so bad, Draco. I understand that your father lost favour, lost respect for your family, but there were reasons for that. You could have earnt that back for the Malfoy name." Another gulp, and he continued, "Your anger about Lucius clouds your view of what was achieved last year. We came close to reasserting our authority. Our authority over them."

"Anger over my father's behaviour? Not of the sort you're referring to. I intercepted your little gift. Surely your father taught you how to court a witch. Generally, the trappings of their own torture aren't the way into their robes."

"Very funny, Draco. Your father was most displeased to learn of your liaison with the Mudblood. It shouldn't be surprising to you that he would seek to distance the two of you."

Malfoy's voice remained cool, tone even, refusing to allow his fury to guide him. "You had no such qualms, though, did you? Don't pretend it was an elaborate ploy. You wanted her. You wanted her when you invited her to join your firm, invited her to dinner with you. Does rejection sting, Rosier? After all, you're so much more familiar with it than I am."

*"You're not the first to lust for Mudblood pussy. There are ways to take that, you know that, you've seen it."

"You meant to rape her? I know you were always a two-bit pureblood, never important enough to be invited to the Dark Lord's revels, but you must know that they weren't wining, dining, offering them jobs before they fucked them? Or do you need a diagram? No. You told my father to ensure your fee, and because you were hurt by her dismissal. She wouldn't look twice at you. What's that like?"

Rosier was audibly irritated now, his brogue more pronounced and having lost the classy edge he had adopted in earlier conversations, "Yet you think she would look twice at you? She won't want you either, not when she finds out what you are. You might have avoided direct participation at the revels, but you did attend. She will find out. You're surrounded by a baying mob in every direction. Our side, we don't want the Malfoy line sullied with dirty blood. Their side, they don't trust you, they won't want you near her. She'll be told all about what you did, what you are. Do you really think she will still want you, after she hears everything, once she knows you? She can be as forgiving as you like. She won't tie herself to a man who tortured her ilk, a man who sent them to die."

Draco, conversely, remained collected. "They used to beg for death, you know. The Muggles. So unaware of what was happening to them, they thought they had lost their minds even before they did. Drowning without water, burning without fire, skin peeling without a knife. It didn't kill them. No, my soul is technically intact. Humans, even Muggles, are survivors. The mind collapses long before the pain takes a body. It's worse for wizards. You know what is happening to you, your mind won't break and save you. A wizard, especially one like you, someone who represents the torturers, will know it can get worse, will know precisely how it can get worse. I'm no Dolohov. But for Hermione Granger, I will be."

"I'm aware that you're threatening me, you know."

With a huffed smirk, Malfoy snarled, "Good. I wasn't sure you were smart enough to get the message."

"And what, Mr. Malfoy, is the message exactly? What precisely do you want?"

A pause, a pregnant pause, as though Malfoy was contemplating how to best state his demands, "Put in a guilty plea for Zabini. No trial. Cease contact with my father, I've dealt with him on my own terms. Then crawl back under whatever rock you came from, and don't even think about Hermione Granger for the rest of your miserable life. You might even get the chance to grow old."

"Pathetic. There is nothing to stop me defending my client, and then disappearing. I'd ruin your Mudblood pet, and save the Malfoy name."

Malfoy laughed: egregiously arrogant and spun with the most sinful of silks, it wove through the bar.

"You could. But I will find you. And I will tear you apart until you beg to die, and then I'll tear you apart some more." A pause. "Forgive me, you don't know what that means. You never saw what we did to people, you were never invited in, so let me be clear for you. If you don't follow my instructions, I will take you, and I will make you regret your very existence. You won't die. I have no interest in splitting my soul. No, you'll feel more alive than ever. You see, the Dark Lord and Aunt Bella indulged me with their demonstrations. With a stasis spell, you can peel the skin off a man and leave every nerve ending intact. With a good enough stock of blood replenishing potions, you won't exsanguinate. That's when the real torture begins. When you can really feel my intentions, when you can really feel my anger." Pausing a moment, allowing his words to sink in, Draco continued, "So yes, Rosier. Run if you like, but I'll put every Galleon in Gringotts's on your head. Igor Karkaroff tried that. The elves never got that stain out of the walls. The things I did for a Dark Lord I didn't want to bow to. More than enough for a life sentence, a cell next to my father's. Just imagine what I'm capable of for the woman I love."

* Silence. Just when Harry's ears had become accustomed to the void, just as it had ceased to be eerie, there was a loud crack as Rosier disapparated. He heard a sudden exhale, and the sound of a glass being drained. A rustle from a pouch, and the clink of several heavy Galleons landing on the bar were followed by a crackle of magic as Malfoy cleared the glasses and bottle from the table. Still breathing heavily, it was a foreign sound. The man had been so calm, so coldly detached throughout the evening, and yet now he sounded as though he might have a panic attack at any moment. This was the Draco Malfoy he could recognise, the boy who had been unable to kill Albus Dumbledore in the Astronomy Tower years ago. Yet tonight, he had proven he was no coward, he had been Harry's horse, and he'd been a winning one.


	37. Human

Human

It had proven impossible for Harry to get to sleep once he returned to Hermione's side. She had exhausted herself with her tears, and while her expression retained the worry lines nestled near her eyebrows, she did not seem to have noticed his absence. As he slid into the covers beside her, he gently corralled her into his arms. He needed her close. As he soothed himself with the rhythm of her breathing, he couldn't help but feel a rush of gratitude for her. She was the greatest comfort he had ever known, steadfast in her loyalty to him, invested in their friendship every bit as much as he. She was formidably intelligent, cunningly strategic and wise in her ruthlessness, yes, but to him? To him, she was softness, she was warmth, she was love. For the first time, witnessing Draco Malfoy defend her, he didn't feel threatened. He had too much faith in the witch in his arms to feel vulnerable. She had more than enough room in her heart for them both, she would have to, because it was abundantly clear that neither were walking away from her.

He felt old, tiredness in his bones, his brain sluggish. A year ago, had he overheard a conversation in which Malfoy alluded to his crimes against Muggles, he would have been assiduous in delivering justice. Now, it was different. Who amongst them hadn't committed crimes during the war, when their life was on the line? Very few. His self-righteousness in the use of disarming over killing had evaporated quickly after visiting Godric's Hollow last year. Malfoy's crimes, at the very least, were serving a noble purpose if they kept Hermione safe. _If_. Rosier hadn't agreed. He had just left. He couldn't believe he was justifying, overlooking the torture of Muggles. Would Hermione feel the same way? A year ago, he'd have known the answer without asking the question. Now? It seemed an unnecessary burden for her to carry, one that carried so many mitigating circumstances that it wasn't worth picking up. As the hours stretched out in front of him, sleep continued to evade him, so as soft footsteps filtered through the door, he was pleased that Malfoy had arrived. He dressed, as quietly as possible, before easing open the bedroom door. The equally exhausted visitor was settled into the armchair, and seemed surprised to see him up so early.

"Couldn't sleep, Potter?"

"We need to cool the Weasley's down a bit. I don't want Hermione any more upset, not with everything that's going on… I need to go out, will you take care of her?" He knew it was a ridiculous question, but he asked anyway, allowing himself a smile when his former enemy glared at him for even considering an alternative. Before Harry had even reached the portrait, Malfoy was on his feet and making his way into the bedroom. Harry shuddered, and committed to thoroughly charm the bed clean that evening, and headed toward the West Tower.

Stripping to his underwear, Draco hesitated for a moment before climbing in under the duvet beside her. She had a ringing purity, one that reverberated despite the silent stillness of the room. As he settled himself within the blankets, he knew that for the rest of his life, for as long as she'd allow him to lie with her, he would always feel a little like he was sullying her with his presence. It wouldn't stop him. _Never_. Yet it would always be so. Wrapping his arms around her stomach, he melted into her as her aura stole all of his anxieties away, and finally succumbed to the beckoning hand of sleep.

As he finally stirred, he was suddenly aware that the figure in his arms was larger than he remembered. Opening a single eye, it became abundantly clear that she had slipped out of his grasp and replaced herself with a pillow. A soft giggle to his left had him rolling over to glare at the little witch, who plainly thought that the sight of Draco Malfoy cuddling a cushion was highly amusing. Running his tired eyes over her, he felt much more invigorated: she had showered, her curls were wet and dark around her shoulders, and she was wrapped only in a towel. Feigning hurt at her laughter, he snuck his hand around her leg and pulled her closer, delighting in the way her towel slipped slightly as she moved forward. He kept his hand on her thigh, teasing his fingers along top of her leg. _Fuck_. She was still damp from the shower. He couldn't believe he had missed it.

"Showering without me, Granger? I'm hurt," he said, while moving the duvet off him to reveal his tented boxers, smirking as her eyes travelled down to sneak a glance.

Noting her interest, he allowed his hand to wander up, until he was gripping her round arse firmly while taking her hand in his and pulling her onto the bed. Her towel fell away completely, and he growled as she settled herself on top of him with her hands combing through his hair. He breathed through the temptation to be frenzied, she was on his lap, naked, and he couldn't decide where to touch her, how to feel her. He decided upon tilting his knees up so she would fall more heavily against his cock, and caressing her luscious, teardrop tits. Teasing her nipples between his fingertips, she leant down and he was thrilled to explore the recesses of her spearmint mouth. Excruciatingly aware that he had not yet brushed his teeth, he moved his mouth to her slender neck as she ground into him suggestively. _His little lioness_.

She was doing something, touching him, while he was lost in the valley between her breasts, hands pressing them both to his lips so he could taste them in all their glory. As his erection bounced out from its prison, he knew what she was doing, and he strained his neck to keep his mouth on her. He would never let go, not if he could help it. She was perfect, her nipples were small, pouty and had an adorable rosy blush that he was determined to see more often. Yet, she was pulling away from him. _Come back. Please_. And then there was a hint of velvet tightness encompassing his tip. She was easing herself onto him, and every millimetre threatened to crush him further. She was tight, too tight. Looking up at him, her brown eyes were glazed with pain. _This was too much_. She was dripping, he could feel it running down his shaft, but she was intensely tight around him too. He moved his arms to stop her from going further, but she pushed them away. She was stubbornly going to continue. His hands instead went to her waist, holding her through her gasps and hisses, trying to comfort her. His body was shuddering, from pleasure or pain, he wasn't sure. After a particularly sharp intake of breath from her as she sank a little further around his steely cock, he took charge.

"I love you. We're doing this my way."

Rocking her over such that she lay on her side, he pulled one of her legs up around his hip, and began kissing her, comforting her. She was his little witch, to cherish, to take care of. He wanted to make love to her, and that would never involve pain. Of any kind. She seemed relieved, and while he had never pulled out, the new angle allowed him to move upward into what was an immediately more bearable tightness. She was hot, wet, and irresistibly ready for him. He began thrusting into her molten folds, giving her time to get used to his size, and she was soon moaning into his hair as he continued to tease his lips over her neck and jaw. His strokes were leisurely, making the most of feeling his woman around him, he didn't want her to ever stop her delicious whimpers. 'Yes, Draco, yes, please,' every word was perfect.

Finally, he shifted her back on top of him, taking all of her weight on his chest as she buried her head into his shoulder, the angle was more forgiving. As he felt the familiar slow burn at the bottom of his stomach, he began to thrust as he gripped her hips for greater control. Taking care not to bruise her, he was already close to losing control when he felt her move to meet his thrusts and the smooth rub of her teeth on his shoulder. _She was biting him_. He couldn't hold back. Her inner walls were pulsing, and he began to take her properly. Engaging every one of the Quidditch honed muscles in his legs and back, he was relentless in his rhythm, teasing every note possible from her sexy little throat as he made her sing for him. Skin slapped against skin, as he was buried to the hilt in her, and he rejoiced in the way his balls felt against her soft arse. He couldn't stop himself any longer, and with a final few erratic thrusts, he filled her completely. She tightened around him, clenching her walls, just as he came and that only served to deliver him a more intense orgasm. As he pulled out of her, his cock finally quiescent, he enjoyed the way his cum had spilled onto her inner thighs. Covered in him, it was like he had claimed her. It was a shame she probably wouldn't keep it there.

"Granger, you look even more beautiful when you wear my seed," he told her, as his fingers whispered between her thighs as she cuddled into him. Teasing over her clit, she gasped, and he decided that another shower was in order. Merlin, she was addictive.

It was late, when they finally made their way to the Great Hall for breakfast. He had exhausted her into multiple rounds of dizzy spasms and had gotten to see that perfect blush of hers several times. He had done a good job, her legs looked stiff as she walked and she was glowing more than usual. He had never thought himself the sort of wizard who would spend much time with his face buried between the thighs of a witch, it certainly wasn't done in Pureblood circles, but her delicious nectar was addictive. An addiction he would never give up. Indeed, he was so distracted by thoughts of pressing her into a hidden alcove and returning to her sweetest spot, that he didn't notice the stares at first.

She nudged him, and he looked around. Everyone was starting at them. More precisely, everyone was staring at her. An awkward hush had fallen across the Great Hall, full of students who had made it to a late Sunday brunch. Even some of the staff were looking at her, though most made the effort to at least be seen to continue eating. He was about to turn her back and engage in a tactical retreat, when a pokerfaced Pansy Parkinson walked up to them and pressed the Prophet into his hands. Before he could ask, she had already fled back to the Slytherin benches. As the paper was snatched from him by an impatient Hermione, he steered her out of the hall and down to the Kitchens. They needed some privacy to work out whatever had caused quite such a strong reaction from the student body. Tickling the pear, it was only as she collapsed onto their usual table that he was able to read the front page over her shoulder: 'ZABINI HEIR GUILTY PLEA FOR ATTEMPT ON SENIOR UNDERSECRETARY GRANGER'S LIFE.'

The headline certainly didn't pull any punches. Rosier certainly hadn't messed about. Last night had been immensely stressful, he hadn't been sure he'd pulled the menacing act off. Apparently, he was more convincing that he had realised. Finally, the ordeal of his little witch was over. Perhaps more relevant: her Ministry position was no more the clandestine operation she had been running.

'_In the early hours of this morning, Blaise Zabini submitted an unexpected guilty plea to charges of abduction, grievous bodily harm and sexual assault. The Prophet can now exclusively reveal that over a series of months, he targeted War Heroine Hermione Granger with physical and sexual violence in a sinister campaign of terror. With Granger set to take over as Senior Undersecretary to the Minister of Magic in the next few weeks, the Wizengamot are expected to call for additional sentencing with regard for her position, given that Zabini could pose a risk to the inner workings of our government. Zabini has been remanded to Azkaban awaiting sentencing, however paperwork filed suggests he will not attend the Wizengamot to enter any mitigating circumstances. His legal advocate, Cepheus Rosier, was unavailable for comment at this time either by Owl or at his home address. Continued on Page Two; Turn to Page Three to learn more of the Zabini family's criminal past; Page Four for more details of the Heroine's new job; or our handy supplement that details Hermione Granger's crucial participation in the Wizarding War.'_

"I'm ordering more copies of the supplement," Draco smirked, knowing full well she hated any allusions to her 'hero' status. While he was trying to put a brave face on things, he was aware that everything was going to change. Hermione hated press attention, yet there was no plausible way to avoid it now. Her entire life would be put under heavy scrutiny, privacy was now a thing of the past. Had she considered that, when she had taken the job? Or had she acted for 'the greater good,' and forgotten about her own needs? His stomach squeezed with a familiar anxiety. She would never be convinced to drop the job, there was too much good she could do. _Would she drop him_? He was sure to attract a whole host of negative publicity for her. Even without him, a Muggleborn woman who wasn't even twenty yet with the second most senior position in government? There would be a public outcry, regardless of her actions during the war. Particularly from the Pureblood population, those who had lost power after the Dark Lord was overthrown. She would need every bit of support she could get, just to survive. To thrive? Well, that would require even more. If Potter could rally her existing friends around her, that would be a start.

Interrupting his thoughts, Hermione spoke, "Everything is going to change now." Her voice was soft, and his heart ached for her. She knew what was about to happen. Perhaps not the extent, the details, but she knew. "Draco, we're serious about each other, right?"

He looked her in the eyes, shocked at the waver of worry in her tone. Cupping her chin in his hands, he smiled, "If you are willing to deal with all the bad press that comes with being with a former Death Eater, then I am the luckiest man alive. I am very serious about you, Granger. We have a lifetime together… from my end at least?"

She seemed comforted, and nodded. She bit her lip slightly, and he recognised it as her considering her next step. She had few tells, but that was the one he was most familiar with. Her plotting look. "I need to get the media on side, don't I? I can do that today, but I need some help, a spell. Will you come on an adventure with me today? I promise you won't get into trouble for anything, of course."

He wasn't sure what she was up to, but even without Potter's concern, he wouldn't have left her side. If Granger considered it an adventure, he knew he was in for a wild ride. She seemed to have an enduring relationship with trouble, one he had never suspected her to have, always putting the blame on the Weasel and Potter. How wrong he had been: she was the wild one, and trouble had never been so enticing. _It was always the quiet ones_.

Several hours and some casual Muggle clothing later, they found themselves walking along an anonymous London street, made up of stucco-fronted period converted apartments bordered with gloss black gates and railings as a vista of ramparted respectability. As they approached a mid-terrace entrance, Hermione slowed their pace and took his hand in his. Smiling sweetly, she seemed entirely relaxed as they strolled along the pavement. They looked like any other couple taking a Sunday walk in the breezy Spring air, and when he saw her select a mark, he knew why. The man in front of them was around forty years old, and headed determinedly toward the very porch she had pointed out to him. Speeding up, as he buzzed himself in, she caught the door before it hit the latch and held it for a few seconds until the footsteps within faded away.

Strolling in, Hermione looked every inch as though she belonged there as she made her way across the worn grey and maroon tiles of the entrance hall and up the bare wooden stairs to the second floor. Even smiling at the man as they passed him on the stairs, she was unwavering in her poise and for that he could only admire her. It was remarkably easy to follow her around, and he no longer wondered quite how Weaselbee had coped over the years. She had clearly carried the three, that was more obvious than ever. Finally, they came across a door, adorned with a brass plate that identified it as Flat 3B, and she dropped her bag all over the floor. Papers flew out, and his eyes widened as he dropped to the floor and rapidly began to pick them up. _Shit_. _What if they got caught?_

Gathering the parchment up as quickly as he could, paying the stinging cuts on his hands no attention as he rushed the task, he stood to return them to her bag when he noticed she was not helping with the mess. Rather, she was making an increasingly complex series of wand movements and had her eyes slightly narrowed as if she was scrutinising closely. As he watched, he felt waves of magic wash over him, and he realised she was breaking through the wards. Hermione Granger, the ultimate good girl, was housebreaking. He had fallen for her distraction all too easily. Quickly picking up the rest of her papers, and pushing them into her satchel, he followed her through the door which she quickly pushed shut behind them.

The hallway was cramped, largely taken up by a large veneer shoe rack that had a number of garish shoes thrown haphazardly amongst its shelves. There was a well-worn runner, that had likely once been a fabric rich with cream and maroon but had become threadbare and faded with use; and a gilt mirror adorned with enough dust to suggest that the owner hadn't mastered household charms. Noticing that Hermione had tucked her and into her pocket, he drew his own. Someone had to be prepared, and she still hadn't explained what they were doing there.

"Let's have a look around," said Hermione, pressing forward toward the first room on the right. She took in the room. It was certainly cosy, and had surprisingly few books. Most of the room was dominated by a contemporary mid-century sofa covered with flat umber cushions and a teal blanket thrown over the arm. There was a coffee table, with several stained mugs of half-finished coffee and ink stains that had seeped into the knotted hickory wood. It seemed impersonal, too neutral given what she was looking for. Casting an eye into the next room, she saw a table with two chairs, and the worktops of a person who saw no value in updating what was an obviously seldom used kitchen. There was a pound cake hidden in a breadbin, the packaging obscured with a glamour to create the illusion of a home baked treat. _No_. This didn't seem right either.

Heading back to the hallway, she passed Draco nosing through some Muggle records curiously. There were only two doors left, one was the bathroom: a gaudy aqua on the walls was the only feature she wrinkled her nose at distastefully. The room had a large walk in shower, and a corner bathtub that had an ostentatious range of taps. Next to the bath was a table, on which was a discarded quill. This was closer, much closer to the inner sanctum of the house. _She could feel it_. That left the bedroom. Pushing open the door, she knew she had found it. The bed was unkempt, and the wardrobe doors were open exposing an array of altered dress robes, but the room was dominated by a large desk and a broad, split suede Gainsborough chair. The grain of the table flowed as if once it had had a pulse, and as she ran her hands over the surface, she couldn't quite touch the tabletop. The contents of the desk had been disillusioned.

"Finite Incantatem!"

There was enough parchment on the table to weight down the desk, it was practically groaning under the pressure. Nestled in the middle was a well-thumbed plum Saffiano journal, and after determining there were no further protective enchantments on the book, she began to read. Page, after page, she turned. With each turn, came more information, and even greater confirmation of her suspicions. Checking the time, she asked Draco to wait in the kitchen. If she was right, the author wouldn't be long. Double checking she had replaced the wards perfectly, she returned to the desk where she continued to read the secrets held within the buttery cream feint lined pages. She had committed almost every word to memory by the time she heard the rattle of the door. As a pair of heels clattered into the tiled floor, footsteps padded closer. The bedroom door opened, and just as the woman threw her bag to the floor, she turned and caught sight of Hermione sitting at her desk.

"What the fuck are you doing in my house?!" Her eyes scanning the scene, she spotted the thick journal held in the girl's hands. Her eyes widened, though her expression remained painfully stoic.

Hermione's voice was calm, measured. "It took me a long time, Rita. Too long. I got there though, in the end."

She motioned to the peroxide blonde to walk, directing her toward the Living Room. She kept her wand trained on her the entire way: she knew that mutton dressed as lamb was only a circuitous allusion to a wolf in sheep's clothing. Now the world knew about her new position, she would take no risks. This would be resolved today.

"You read my journal. You broke into my home. You're pointing your wand at me. Not the best start for a Ministry official," the woman sneered. "You can't blackmail yourself out of this one. I'm not an unregistered Animagus anymore."

Hermione painted herself with a polite smile, "As if I'm the only extortionist in this room. Oh, I'm more than capable of returning you to that jar. I'm not a naïve little girl anymore, clearly you learnt no lessons from your year off. This time, I won't be letting you out. Tell me, how long can a beetle survive without food and water? I hope it's not too long. I'm a very busy woman."

While Skeeter tried hard to mask her reaction, she had long since learnt that Hermione Granger could be extraordinarily vindictive, no matter how few people saw through her puritan mask. With the most subtle swallow she could manage, she sank down to her sofa, and fought to keep her voice even, "Why would you want to return me to a jar? The public have no appetite for anything other than positive articles about you. Sadly, they don't know you as well as I do."

"It's up to you whether you're returned to the jar to die. I have no scruples about it, you're no great loss to wizarding society, and there's no need for me to boast about finally ridding the tabloids of you. I already have an Order of Merlin First Class for my services. I can easily do this with no repercussions at all."

With a sharp cackle, the witch flicked her brittle curls back over her shoulder, "Then I choose not to die! Now, get out of my flat before I call the Aurors. How did you even find me?"

"You said it yourself. You're not an unregistered Animagus anymore. I had a little look at the register on my last visit to the DMLE, and happened to notice your address there. It's little wonder you don't get so many inside scoops now, with people in the know on the lookout for a beetle. You don't even attend the same events as those of us with some influence. You never did get invited to those things, did you Rita?"

Scowling, she snapped back, "I think you'll find I've attended parties that would straighten out even your ghastly hair!"

"Never the Slug Club though," Hermione simpered back, "You were never bright enough, never brilliant enough, to get invited. Professor Slughorn would have wanted to collect someone who had such a nose for gossip, even with a personality as repugnant as yours, if you'd shown even a degree of aptitude."

"And yet he somehow made the mistake of inviting you there. Obvious enough that he doesn't recognise real talent."

"Talent? You might've scraped an A in Transfiguration, but you got a T in Potions. No talent to be seen by the look of your OWL results. Professor Slughorn certainly had the measure of you. Hogwarts, despite its faults, has a very comprehensive filing system. Your reports were most illuminating. They certainly posed a question: how did someone as unqualified in Potions as you brew something as complex as the Animagus Potion? With a T in Potions, you barely know one end of the cauldron from the other. You must have needed help. Help from someone talented enough to assure you of the animal you'd be when you transform. Someone who could cast alterations on a draught at the most crucial point of the process. I only knew one Potions Master with that ability, and he'd have scoffed at you. He would have been starting school when you had already graduated, so there was no risk of any sort of ill-judged attraction. There was no incentive for him to help you with something so frivolously garrulous. Yet there was no one else, and I've seen his notes on how to alter the potion. I guess you wanted something slightly more elegant than a beetle, but he certainly had the measure of you. He hid that from you, changed the colour of the vial, the only revenge he could take. Reading your journal, it all makes sense. You've always liked preying on the vulnerable, it is, perhaps, your only skill. You found him eight years ago: lonely, sad, lost and utterly fucking brilliant. You found Severus Snape. Drowning his sorrows of unrequited love and loss, confronted with her child, and all you had to do was listen to him pour his heart out. He didn't recognise you as the vulture you are, and he inadvertently handed you everything you needed to blackmail him into helping you."

Laughing, almost maniacally now, Rita spoke, "You've gone through all of this, spent countless hours on me, because you have some pathetic iota of compassion for a dead wizard? Tell me, why is it that you always allow yourself to be driven by the needs of weak men? Are you some sort of misguided White Knight? What's wrong with you? You might be repulsive and meddling, but you're not stupid. You could be so much more, take so much more." With no answer forthcoming, she continued, "It was Harry Potter first, so desperate for affection after his mummy and daddy died, he'd accept even the plain witch you are. He's nothing particularly special, not really, he's only what You Know Who made him. And then it was the Weasley boy. I hear he's heartbroken! Starved of anything of his own, growing up in poverty and competition with his countless siblings, he craved anyone, anything he could truly call his own. No real skills, no real talent, nothing to offer anyone. The Minister too. Don't think I haven't noticed the way the perpetually single Kingsley Shacklebolt is lusting after you. Too weak to maintain the Ministry on his own, it would have collapsed around his ears and rightfully so. Because he's not good enough, he was the blind leading the blind until you trundled onto the scene to save him from his natural fate. And poor Draco Malfoy. Too pathetic to kill Dumbledore, too weak to fight properly. Loyalty isn't a word he can spell, let alone understand. You might've stopped us publishing our pictures of your little outing, but it's clear you pity him. It's terrible PR for you, by the way, to be seen with the most disappointing Death Eater ever known. And now? Now you care about Snape? Let me tell you, girlie, he was the easiest mark I've ever had. Practically sobbing into his firewhisky before I'd even arrived. A little charm on my hair, some green coloured contacts, that's all I needed to have him telling me everything. I suppose you're a bit like Lily Evans, though I doubt you'd capture hearts like she did… well, he told me enough about his dark mark, his betrayal of her, all the little things he was so deeply ashamed of. He agreed to make the potion, if I didn't publish. And now? Now I get to publish anyway. Weak, weak men. Stop putting yourself out for them. They're not worth it."

Hermione had heard enough. Fully aware that Draco was in the kitchen, and could overhear every word, she kicked herself for even allowing the ranting bitch to go on as long as she had. "Merlin, can you really be so blind? Wanting affection, seeking independence, asking for help, falling in love. None of those are weaknesses, they're strengths. Severus Snape is the bravest man I've ever known. You don't think it takes courage to ask for help when you need it? You don't see the morality it takes to refuse the orders of Voldemort? That's what makes people human. And I'll defend people's right to be human until my last breath. That's what we fought for. What I fought for. What I'm fighting for now. So, I don't really care for your opinions on all of the people I care about. It's decision time, Rita. Either way, nothing will be published." Conjuring a jar, and casting an unbreakable charm over it, she opened the lid and waited.

Rita didn't agree with the witch. That was obvious. Hermione Granger was conniving in all the wrong ways, she could have taken power, she could have taken popularity, she could have taken money. Yet she spent her time defending idiotic men who were too feeble to protect themselves. It disgusted her. She had given up so much, any silly dreams of marriage and children, for success. She was firm in her belief that you couldn't have it all, but you could take a lot. She looked up, and the determined gleam in the young woman's eyes demanded a response, "What do you want?"

"An unbreakable vow."

"I'll still be a journalist?"

Hermione nodded. This was, admittedly, bigger than saving Severus Snape's blushes. Rita Skeeter could be made to be useful, if she played this right.

"You need someone else to cast if…" before she could finish the sentence, Draco had made his appearance in the living room, wand drawn and ready. Standing to meet Hermione by the coffee table, she reluctantly placed her arm on Hermione's, hand to wrist.

"Will you, Rita Skeeter, stop the publication of the book and any future writing about Severus Snape, and hand all manuscripts and notes over to me?"

The woman glared at her, but spoke clearly, "I will."

A thin tongue of brilliant flame issued from Draco's wand and wound its way around their hands like a red-hot wire.

"Will you refer the final publication decision about all articles, books and writings on Severus Snape to me?"

"I will."

A second fiery rope bound their wrists.

"And will you support, respect and obey my position, my relationships and my wishes concerning those around me in print?"

Rita looked furious, the broad commitments trapping her, "I will."

A final flame bound them, and Hermione pulled her hand away from the journalist. Rita walked away sullenly, collecting parchment and manuscripts as she scoped out the hidden nooks and crannies of the cramped flat. Hermione neatly placed them into her satchel, the blank parchments she had spilled long vanished, and smiled at the bitter woman whose time was finally up. Severus Snape's secrets were safe. As soon as they were back onto the empty, dark street, Draco gripped her arm and let out a deep exhale, "Remind me never to get on your bad side, Granger. No more adventures for me, not for a while. You're terrifying."


	38. Thinking

Thinking

"I want to formally request either a reassignment, or at the very least that Miss Granger is disciplined," Williamson requested, failing to keep his tone as even handed as he had planned, "It's clear she's removed our tracking charms, and she has found some way of escaping her school more frequently than Hogsmede weekends. If she chooses to put herself in danger, there is little I can do for her."

Kingsley sat behind his desk; hands clasped as he considered the man in front of him. It wasn't as though he was wrong, not really. Hermione was quite clearly unwilling to be followed around: whether it was by principle, an issue with the indiscretion of it all, or due to a more personal dislike of Williamson; he couldn't be sure. She wasn't the first person to banish the trace, far from it, but to do it so discretely and then apparently move around Wizarding Britain with such ease and without a single sighting? _Where was she even going?_ It was little wonder that Voldemort had failed to find her. Had she not been such a valuable political strategist, she'd have made a fearsome Auror. He'd heard a whisper from Harry that Williamson had far from endeared himself to her, but the man had been reticent to provide more details. The Auror had long been difficult to work with. The man had gone through more partners than hot dinners, and there was little reason other than his rather hard personality. Loyal as they came, the man had been invaluable last year, and Kingsley had thought there might be a meeting of minds when he assigned him to Hermione. Apparently, that had been far from the case, and he couldn't help but question whether it had anything to do with her involvement with a certain former Death Eater.

"She's nineteen, Williamson. Are you seriously telling me that you haven't been able to trace her? That under your scrutiny, she's been able to wander around freely without you noticing? That you have allowed the second most senior person in the Ministry, a war heroine moreover, to go without her security detail?"

The Auror's eyes narrowed at that, both men keenly aware that she was no normal teenager, and that any attempt to follow her without her consent would be, as she had proven, a wild goose chase around the most ridiculous locations she could envisage. Williamson had spent a dreadful afternoon seeking her through streams of elderly Muggle women at a Marmalade Festival in Penrith before he had given up and apparated home. Yet, it was his responsibility, and she had indeed been travelling with no protection. It was clear that Shacklebolt was going to be less than sympathetic to his plight, and perhaps he should have seen this coming.

"She doesn't like you. Why?"

Williamson paused. Another question he hadn't prepared for. This had been a very poor idea; he hadn't grasped that there was any closeness between the Minister and Granger. Yet the man who sat before him, scrutinising him keenly, was being too protective for that to have been an accurate assessment. It must have been the Order of the Phoenix. Kicking himself, he knew he had little choice but to be honest. "I may have made a poor initial impression, though I think she may have changed her mind on that by now. And I could have been somewhat careless in my words with her." The haughty raised eyebrow and set frown of the Minister was thankfully interrupted by a placid knock on the door. His relief was short lived, however, when the woman herself walked in accompanied by a tall, broad set young man wearing luxurious pressed black velvet dress robes.

"Perfect timing. If you're unable to manage Miss Granger's security properly, I'll request your new boss here to send you on a refresher course. However, it is perhaps making amends that will serve the best results. Neville, thank you for coming along. This is Williamson, one of your Aurors. As the incoming Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, you'll find your offices on Level Two. He will be pleased to give you the tour, I'm sure." Trying to avoid Hermione's amused smirk, Kingsley waited until the door shut behind the two men before he spoke. "So, care to tell me how you're getting out of the castle?"

She decided that was not necessary information, and shot him a small smile before offering her arm to him. They were visiting her new office today, finally ready for her to move in. It was next door to his, and probably almost identical, but he'd promised her a grand tour of what was her first workplace. He kept to his word, and she beamed as she ran her hand along the wall of warm anjan wood bookshelves with sparkling glass paned doors, ready to protect the books she deemed relevant to her work. Research would inevitably be a significant part of her involvement at the Ministry, loopholes didn't find themselves, and she keenly noted the order form waiting on the third shelf. Already waiting was a set of Wizengamot statutes, in chronological order and bound in a luxurious tan goatskin. Filing cabinets, of the same wood grain with the Ministry of Magic seal carved baroquely in the top drawer of each, sat either side of an enchanted window. Magical Maintenance had apparently decided that it was to be a crisp, sunny afternoon, and yet she paused. She would be altering this particular aperture, that was for sure. _It would prove most useful_. Opposite her, near the door, was a weighty gold framed portrait that would have been garish had it not exuded quality which ensured it was worth a small fortune. Severus' new portrait. Her desk was vast: handsomely grained mahogany on raised side panels, it had an antiqued, hand tooled leather top. Stepping around the beckoning deep button-tufted oxblood chair, she ran her fingers across the brass nailhead trim of the desk top. Two chairs sat on the other side, for visitors. For visitors to her office. _Her office_. It was a lot.

Kingsley held out her seat, and she sank into it and allowed herself a deep breath. As he sat opposite her, she wriggled in her chair in an attempt to shake off the residual discomfort at having the Minister of Magic in her office. _Her office_. Everything seemed a little too vivid, a little too intense. _The devil comes disguised as everything you've ever wanted. _Shaking her head, under the guise of tucking her curls over her shoulder, she cleared her mind as best she could. _Focus_.

"…cannot believe I am willingly spending more time with the most insufferable know it all Hogwarts has ever seen. You should have my portrait investigated for evidence of dark curses," the voice unyielding, but his eyes sweeping the room appreciatively. Freedom suited the snarky professor.

Kingsley smiled, broad white teeth perfectly aligned as his lips lifted upward, a smug crinkle in his cheek indicated that he knew just how handsome he looked when he was happy. His eyes ran over her, and she fidgeted as subtly as she could, uncomfortable with the attention, "Indeed, she is rather invigorating isn't she, Severus?"

Severus did not seem altogether taken with the description, nor with the Minister's interest in Hermione, for his expression seamlessly glided into a fierce scowl, "Perhaps, Shacklebolt, you should keep that curious opinion to yourself, especially given Mr. Malfoy's impending arrival."

Hermione looked at Professor Snape: he was dressed in black, every inch the fearsome man who had tormented her so. The man who had mocked her teeth and had ridiculed her thirst for knowledge, was the most welcome entity in her office. The one who didn't fill her with disquiet. He had become a figure she respected far more than Kingsley, quite by accident. An accident of knowledge: he had allowed her to come to know him. To see him for the first time. Not that she hadn't come to develop a camaraderie with the Minister. No, they had formed a decent working relationship. He was kind, and warm, and made her laugh. Yet he was still a politician, had still been willing to preside over huge errors of statecraft, been prepared to accept the introduction of Voldemort-era legislation through his failure to govern. She would never trust him, never take his words at face value, never take her eyes off the ball. _She couldn't._ She had seen enough, enough of all of it, to know him as a vulture in the wake. She had been surrounded by them, for years now, and she was ready to reach beyond trying not to die. Perhaps that's what was somehow purer about the portrait. Severus Snape had already died, and now he could live. Mortals are fearful. There was no fear for him anymore. It made him untouchable. A candid anchor in the storm. In her storm.

"I assume you've been receiving more owls than I have?"

Kingsley sighed a little before responding, it was clear he had preferred to avoid the subject. "You're getting them too? We've blocked known senders from Hogwarts as best we can. If it's a Howler, just destroy it. Don't open any of the packages, even if the letter is supportive. While many are indeed well-meaning gifts, we had a particularly nasty black quill sent to you last week. It was charmed to carve your words into your throat. We're still tracking down the sender." Looking at her, he tried to assess how she felt about the threats, and couldn't quite put his finger on it. "Look, Hermione, these people. Some will get bored and stop. Others will be prosecuted. Most will be impressed with what we achieve, and you'll win them round. We just need to be careful until then. You're Muggleborn, but lots of these are by people who object to you being a witch instead of a wizard, nineteen instead of ninety. It's antiquated and barbaric, and I'm sorry, but the only way that changes is when someone like you comes along and stays here."

She had no intention of resigning over any such ridiculous letter campaign, no matter the revolting content, and decided it was time to get down to business. "We've got plans for the departments. We've got plans for the Wizengamot. We need to think about Hogwarts. The most fertile minds are there, it's the place we can make the greatest difference."

Kingsley tensed. Interfering with Hogwarts was no mean feat. It would bring them blowback like no other policy, likely from their own allies. "What do you want to achieve there? As far as I can tell, things are going well?"

"Spoken like a man who hasn't sat in on Arthur Weasley's Muggle Studies class. We've moved him out, from this Summer onwards, yes, but we need to make that course mandatory from First Year to Fifth, and it needs to have an approved curriculum. We'll write it, but I'm not seeking to impose anything. No 'Educational Decrees,' I refuse to be the next Umbridge. We need to get it through the board. Who sits on it?"

She wasn't going to back down on this, and Kingsley could understand why. Eleven years of parental indoctrination about the Muggles 'subspecies' was difficult to overcome without a proper curriculum. "The Board of Governors is short of members. Most are in Azkaban. Your good friend Amos Diggory retains his seat, along with Filius Flitwick."

As she waited for more names, she realised that was it. The only two surviving, non-imprisoned board members. It was like a confirmation of everything she wanted to demand, it was justifying and painful. _And really fucked up_. "Mr. Diggory won't be retaining his seat for much longer. We need to help them get a full board, and I don't want any cross over with the Ministry. It helps us demonstrate that we don't seek to interfere with Hogwarts. We also need to find money, because from what I hear, the budget is all too tight and the needs too great. They need a new History of Magic curriculum and teacher as well; they need some sort of War Memorial. I refuse to look at Dumbledore's grave as some sort of compromise. Just like I wouldn't accept looking at Voldemort's." Ignoring his cringe, she continued, "So where is the money? Because so far this year, things have gotten so dire that Draco Malfoy has been the most effective bursar in our school. He practically gave the library a new section."

"Money isn't tight, I just… haven't gotten around to allotting it. There has been a lot to do." The excuse sounded feeble, even to him, and he had the nasty feeling that Snape's eyes were burning into his back. It was all he could do to avoid putting his head in his hands. It felt no less embarrassing, confessing this to her. He wondered if it would ever get easier. Probably not. He could only hope that he would run out of confessions. "We've confiscated so much wealth at people's trials, but I don't know where to begin in terms of building a sustainable budget. How do we know what departments need when they're so broken they don't function?"

"No one knows we have a bigger pot, then. The Ministry has published expenditure reports right up until two years ago. I'll look over them this week, and establish a committee with the department chairs. They can propose their budgets, and ask them to justify any additional expenses. We set the rest aside for additional projects that go through this office. Like Hogwarts program funding."

Kingsley found her inscrutable evenness frustrating. She never let her mask slip. And he was sure it was a mask, it had to be. After their interaction at Hogwarts, she had never been anything other than constructive, no matter how deep the hole he had dug. Perhaps she thought it made it easier for him to tell her the problems, but it didn't. If anything, it made it worse. _Was it sadomasochistic to want her to be angry at him? Or was it just reasonable?_ "Right. I'll have the records sent to you today. What am I supposed to be doing?"

Her answer was interrupted by a sharp rap on the door. She called for the person to enter, and smiled as she saw Draco. He turned as if to leave, but she motioned for him to take the other seat beside the Minister. Tentatively, he took it, and she allowed herself to continue.

"You're the Minister of Magic, Kingsley. You're a figurehead, and you'll be spearheading and defending everything we seek to achieve. We need your guidance, your connections, your understanding of this place. Most of all? You're our diplomat in chief. Muggle relations, MACUSA, the International Confederation. If we're going to be seen to run the country like it ought to be run, we need to normalise ourselves beyond our own borders. International recognition, and praise, is crucial. You are a lucky man, Minister. Your greatest skill is what we need. Strong, principled restraint of power."

Kingsley's chest seemed to visibly puff with pride at her description, and Draco caught her eye with the subtlest of smirks at her rather obvious manipulation. Feeling significantly more confident, Kingsley began to speak to Draco. "Mr. Malfoy, I'm glad to meet you here. I had wanted to extend an owl for some time, with regard to taking a step forward as one, united nation…"

As Kingsley launched into his confident spiel, setting out what he hoped their shared goals would be moving forwards within the Wizengamot, Hermione felt herself detach a little from the scene in front of her. Draco Malfoy would now sit on the Wizengamot, just like his father. Kingsley Shacklebolt was pushing a message that wasn't his own, just like his predecessor. She sat between them, manipulating the situation just as those she had so despised in the past had done. This was an achievement, she knew that, but try as she might to hold onto that understanding it floated just out of reach. Self-doubt: that familiar stir of fear and doubt, shaken around with utterly wild terror. Had they done so much, to achieve their changes using the same methods? _Were they just reading from the same playbook, espousing a different vision? _She couldn't see the two men now; everything was a static blur in front of her. Louder and louder. The last year had been so far from the titbits of progress she had dared hope for. They were advancing change, but wasn't the method supposed to be important? When had it stopped being important? _The War. She knew that_. Was this her authentic self? _Wasn't it worse if it was? _As her breathlessness threatened to reveal itself, her head too heavy on her shoulders, she couldn't help but think that she'd been very wrong when she had imagined fighting the war would be the hardest part. She sat back in her chair, desperate to control the overwhelming squeeze on her lungs.

_You can do this, Hermione. Breathe_. But her lungs continued to crush around her. She couldn't bullishly blast through the iron grip anxiety had on her. It was all consuming, and yet, she could think. Just a little, a tiny light in a gripping darkness, her brain was there. _Think, Hermione, think_. _As a little girl, she'd longed to rush through childhood, ignore the distractions of adolescence, and simply focus on learning, on doing something for the world._ She fought to keeping thinking through the roaring white noise that suffocated her. _You've achieved that. You are achieving that. You have gone from school, to government. You have outmatched even your wildest academic fantasies, and you're ready. Changing the world means breaking the rules. Do it, or others will. _Her fingers went to her neck, a nervous tic she hoped went unnoticed by those she knew were present, invisible though they seemed. Her fingertips gripped a little flesh. Squeezed. But this time, she didn't dig her nails in. Instead, she thought. She kept thinking. Rationalising. And this time, the light of her thoughts burnt through the noise. A gentle ebb of reason flowed, softer than her blood ever was, but it provided a path through the fog. She followed it. _Thinking_. She pulled her hand back to her lap. It took focus: her wrist felt heavy, it wasn't easy, but it followed her directions.

"… I'm keen to make a positive impact on society, Minister. The Malfoy name will come to be a force for good, an ideology we as individuals here certainly share, in this new and better age."

Draco sounded polished, and she realised that she had never really heard him in a professional context. He sounded like a seasoned diplomat; his accent absolutely pristine, every vowel elongated effortlessly. She could understand how Lucius Malfoy had accomplished so much, if he was the one who had taught the man who sat before her. Neither of her guests had noticed her foray into her own head, but the burning black eyes of Severus Snape were on her. He was obstinately observant, and she was already beginning to have some regrets on the positioning of his portrait. _Easy to converse with, yes, but hard to avoid_. As the conversation settled into an eerily comfortable small talk, the Minister excused himself. As the door clicked shut, Draco grinned and walked around the desk to settle in front of her.

"How long have you known I was taking the Malfoy seat on Wizengamot, then?" He grinned.

She smiled up at him through her eyelashes, slightly embarrassed. With time, she knew she'd have to be more forthcoming with him. It was only fair, "Since I made the recommendation in January." Standing up so they were on a more even keel, she was relieved when he took her hands in his.

"That's a lot of trust, giving me input on politics. I'm going to help you put the world to rights, whether that's by voting or donating or just cuddling you to sleep when you've had a long day. I promise you that, Granger," before leaning in to kiss her cheek ever so lightly. He stepped out, examining the window behind her, and she pushed herself up such that she was sitting on her desk, her legs swinging a little as he explored the office. Finally satisfied, he turned and eased himself to stand amid her swinging legs. Leaning forward, he kissed her. His kiss was spice and peppermint, her hands threading through his hair as his arms encircled her waist, his hips slim muscle between her thighs.

"Fuck, this dress looks so good on you, Senior Undersecretary Granger," he groaned as one of his hands caressed up from her knee to her inner thigh. As he pushed the small slip of fabric to one side, and his fingers were whispering across her folds, circling her clit, everywhere but where she wanted them; she impatiently unzipped his dress trousers as he finally sank a single digit into her as she lay back, curly hair fanning gloriously around her as he kinked his finger inside of her most delightfully.

"Stop!" Came a low cry from behind them, and their eyes trailed upward toward the source of the commotion, "Surely I have suffered enough? The two of you are libidinous exhibitionists. I'm going back to Spinner's End for some peace and quiet."

As Snape left his portrait rapidly in a swish of robes that the corporeal man would have been proud of, Hermione's widened eyes caught sight of the abominable smirk across Draco's face. The smirk of a man who was not entirely unaware of his Godfather's presence in the room when he initiated their tryst. Just as she moved to open her mouth to admonish him, his hand moved the fabric of her underwear aside once more, and thrust forward into her tight, wet heat. He knew that the throaty moan she let out was altogether more satisfying than the reprimand that had surely been on the tip of her delicious little tongue.


	39. Choices

Choices

The dorm was silent. Everyone else had headed down to breakfast. He should have gone with them, he knew. When Urquhart had asked him, to play for them in the Ravenclaw match, he'd been speechless. It hadn't been an easy opportunity to take: he knew, flying in front of all of those people, people he'd endangered, wouldn't be the same. Not anymore. He loved flying, but he loved it more when it was him and Potter. No crowds, no animosity beyond the purest battle possible: the two of them seeking the Golden Snitch. There would be no glory in playing for his house, not anymore. He had said yes, subject to Professor Weasley allowing him out of class, safe in the knowledge that the man resented him immensely and he would be unable to fly for Slytherin. That was when Hermione somehow got hold of the issue, and she was the unstoppable force that proved the object movable. Arthur Weasley was somehow convinced to allow his students the day off, and suddenly he was in a tighter spot than ever. He would have to play. She had been so beautiful in her ferocity, when she stood up and walked to the Headmistress' Office. Determined and powerful and utterly glorious. So striking that he hadn't been able to stop her, and he wasn't sure he really wanted to anymore. He doubted he could. If he'd told her his fears: the protests, the walkout, that Quidditch would be ruined for him, he knew she'd have every student in the school signed up into his own personal fan club by dawn. She was his relentless girl, and he loved her even when she terrified him. Sometimes, he thought maybe he loved her in part because she terrified him. So, there he was, sitting in the dim light of his dorm, Quidditch robes on. Alone. Not ready to go to breakfast.

He had the box again, open this time, sitting in front of him. He hadn't touched it, not yet. He knew that his father had likely not yet ceased attempting to shut the box. He knew that the silent twirl of the figurine would be driving him insane. It was a valuable knowledge, one that had kept him going at times. Knowing that his father likely being shocked, because surely, he would persevere in attempting to shut the box, if only to silence the questions screaming within his own head. As he fingered his wand, his own question returned to him. What memories? What would upset Lucius most? _"I'll never be able to make up for this, for what happened. I need you to know that it is you that is too pure for me. I love you, Hermione." His placed kisses on her scar, the scar that his Aunt had forced on her, the scar that was just one of a million signals of her strength. _His father was very much of the opinion that Pureblood men did not confess such feelings, nor hold them if possible. It was certainly not something one felt for a Muggleborn._ "Can't wait until I fill you with our child, Granger. You will be impossibly beautiful. But for now, I'm going to taste you, taste what we are together." Her convulsing moans as the noise of his tongue lapping within her folds echoed around the shower; her mewing as his nose collided with her clit; his own groaning as he came solely because of her exquisite taste; her wanton moans and vulnerable whimpers as she finally came with his fingers curled inside of her and his tongue catching as much of her juices as possible. _His father would be horrified: Pureblood men did not perform oral sex on women, let alone Muggleborns, especially true when they had already finished inside of them. He adjusted his Quidditch kit as he realised he had to do that again, and soon, he was rock hard at the memory. _"Do you think there is something missing?" Her laugh. Her bright, open, genuine laugh. She laughed because she meant it. It was wonderful. "If that's a veiled reminder of your desire to see me pregnant, then definitely not yet." Kisses. Lots of them. _His father had always been obsessed with the Malfoy name, and was very clear that the line would continue with an appropriate Pureblood woman whose family were fit to provide a strong match. He'd never even spoke on why Muggleborns were unsuitable. He had deemed it too obvious, even for Draco.

Any of those memories would hurt his father. They would anger him, torture him in his filthy cell. _Merlin, he wanted that_. Yet he was pointing his wand down, away from his head. He couldn't. Not because of any misguided loyalty to Lucius Malfoy. No, it was evident that his father's opinions were ludicrous. He had known that for longer than he cared to admit, even to himself. Hermione Granger hadn't stolen her magic from anyone. Hermione Granger had shown him privilege like no other by allowing him to love her. _She was everything_. So no, he couldn't put those memories in the box. His father couldn't hear them, couldn't have them. Not like this. He would not be Blaise Zabini. He refused to be. That monster had stripped her bare and humiliated her, enforcing her nudity, her vulnerability without a thought of consent. If he put those memories in the box, and exposed their, her, intimate, private moments, he was no different, perhaps even worse. Worse because she trusted him, worse because she chose to be vulnerable with him, worse because he was the man who rescued her. He refused to betray her. He would be loyal, he would be loving, he would be everything his father was not. She would choose what went into that box, if anything at all. She was worth losing the opportunity for revenge, if that was what she wanted. Standing, he put the box back into his trunk and locked it securely. He had to go to breakfast. He had a Quidditch match to play.

His presence had indeed been missed at breakfast, and Harry had elected to take Hermione for a walk through the grounds when her anxious fidgeting threatened to overwhelm her. It had been a long few weeks, and he knew she was privately nervous of the reaction to Malfoy playing Quidditch. His no show in the Great Hall certainly hadn't helped things. As they walked around the lake, and as his fingers intertwined with hers, he realised she was ice cold. Nervous or hungry, probably both. It was hard. Hard to see her struggle, even if things were getting better. She was pale, and had seemed too queasy to eat anything. It was the first time in a while she hadn't managed even a spoonful of cereal and his body ached with the hope it was a one off. "'Mione, I think we should go look at Grimmauld Place next month, over the Easter holidays. If we're going to have a home ready for Teddy, it's going to need a lot of repair and updating. You'll help me?"

With a smile that didn't quite meet her eyes, she looked up at him, "I'll always help, Harry. Yes, we'll secure it first, and then work out a plan. Andromeda seems so tired, in her owls these days."

Harry hadn't missed the lukewarm tinge to her response, and so much of him wanted to take her, grab Malfoy and force them both back to their rooms. Where they would be safe, where things were certain. No more lapses, she couldn't afford it. So small, so fragile, so cold. He tightened his grip on her hand, as if it was her anchor to the ground, to sanity. "I'm sure we'll be the same soon enough. He's so little. I hope we can give him a better childhood than I had. Even if it is in that house." When her hand squeezed back, comforting him, it was a blessed relief. She was there. Through the unease, she was still there.

The quiet of the grounds was soon overtaken by the cheerful bustle of students making their way to the Quidditch pitch, and they joined them on the winding path to the game. Even as her heart pounded, unsure if it wanted the match to start or to be delayed, Hermione felt the magic of it all. The little spark that came from being one of a crowd, the sense of absolute lucidity with others: it was numbing in just the way she needed. She could just walk, and breathe, and smile. She could push her fears away, for the few minutes it would take to reach the stands. She hadn't ever considered that it would be something to miss, about Hogwarts, the weekends spent watching Quidditch. As she glanced over to Harry, exhilarated expression despite him being a mere spectator, she realised it was probably because she knew she'd never truly get away from the game. After all, he'd made it very clear that her presence at Puddlemere United matches was most definitely expected. He'd even gotten her a navy jersey with his name in embarrassingly large letters on the back. _As if she would wish to draw more attention to herself, at a Quidditch match of all places_. Climbing up the steps, they ascended to the highest benches of the stadium, and she spared a few seconds to look at the place she'd met Draco. Really met him. Hidden in the stands: his very first rescue. He had been trying to watch the game without drawing attention to himself, and today he was preparing to fly for his house team. It had been quite a reversal of fortunes, she simply hoped it would go well. Emerging into the sunlight, Harry guided her toward the front pew, and she was relieved when Neville joined them a few minutes later.

The benches filled, as students took advantage of the warm afternoon to take a break from their books. Hermione flinched a little as she caught whispers of familiar red hair: Ginny and Ron were nearby, and she had never been more grateful for the boisterous group of Gryffindor boys who had surrounded her. Seamus, Dean, Peakes and Coote were roaring as the teams walked onto the pitch. Draco's platinum hair was instantly recognisable. Her eyes found the Slytherin tower, and there was a soft relief as they seemed entirely focused on supporting their house. The commentary box was full. Professor McGonagall had elected to sit next to Cormac McLaggen, as though she was anticipating plentiful issues with his commentary for what was ordinarily one of the less anticipated matches of the season. Nevertheless, the wizard didn't seem fazed as he pointed his wand to his throat, and the crowd's breath hitched. It was about to begin.

"Welcome Witches and Wizards, to the first post-Yule match of this year's Inter House Quidditch Cup. Ravenclaw, led by Captain Aron Chambers, returning to avenge their loss two years ago. Slytherin, led by Janus Urquhart, have brought back Death Eater…" A sharp spark of magic from McGonagall had him correct his commentary, but it was too late. Everyone had heard. The resounding jeers made her sick to her stomach. "Former Death… okay, okay, Seeker Draco Malfoy."

She ground her teeth as she reflected on how grotesquely dreadful Cormac was, and always had been. Hermione wanted to cry, and she urgently sought out Draco's direction of sight. He seemed to be looking far beyond the stands, even from the ground. She wished herself naïve enough to believe he couldn't hear the laughter, the taunts, but she wasn't. She couldn't block them out for him, so she would have to overcome them. It was the only way. She gripped Neville and Harry's arms, and spoke as clearly as she could.

"We're supporting Slytherin today. Really supporting them. Right?"

They nodded, and passed the message to the boys around them. A murmur of discontent fizzled out quickly, when Harry shifted to glare at them. They would fall into line for the Chosen One, or likely face the wrath of the Head Girl. The players took to the air, and as they made their lap around the stadium, the Ravenclaw team garnered a cheer from almost every stand. When the Slytherins flew, they seemed almost braced for the boos. As they approached the red and gold segment of the stadium, Draco veered his broom a little further from the crowd, hoping that at the very least nothing would be thrown at him. Instead, a few choice voice amplification charms had resulted in a cheer that could rival the support from his own house. Pritchard, their keeper, almost fell from his broom in surprise. Draco, however, hung back a little and grinned at her. _His most ardent supporter, his little witch._ Sharply turning his broom toward the stands, he hovered a meter away from her and his usually steely eyes were bright. He mouthed something to her, and while she wasn't clear on his words, she certainly knew what she wanted to say.

"I love you!" she whispered, hoping he could read her lips better than she was able. Except she hadn't quite remembered, in all of the commotion, to end the charm that had them roar quite so loudly. Her whisper came out as a loud shout, and she felt her face flush red as the school turned to look at her. Mortified, she kept her eyes trained on Draco, almost hoping he would pull her onto his broomstick and hide her away. He didn't, instead he simply sat with a ridiculous grin and mouthed it back, before flying away to join his team. He was ready, ready to win, even if she wanted to sink into the ground far below them. She turned to glare at Harry, who was vibrating silently as he tried to absorb his laughter as best he could. As their eyes met, he let out a deep giggle, and she couldn't help but smile despite her embarrassment. It would be all over the school, tomorrow. Today, it was Quidditch.

"Take your positions, players!" A sharp whistle echoed around the stadium as the quaffle was thrown to the air, possession seized by Astoria Greengrass and ten points taken almost immediately. Slytherin were flying like a team possessed. It didn't prove as difficult as anticipated to support them. As the snitch was released, Draco soared and dived across the pitch, outpacing his opposition and driving them dizzy. He flew like he owned the skies. _Maybe he did_.

"Malfoy showing off in the sky won't catch Slytherin the snitch, but I suppose it's all he has left with his fathe…"

"CORMAC! I WON'T WARN YOU AGAIN. KEEP TO THE QUIDDITCH OR YOU'LL FIND YOURSELF IN DETENTION." His commentary barely improved, even when the threat of detention was implemented in full. McGonagall seemed ready to explode, but the school couldn't tear their eyes away from the game. Ravenclaw had been on top form all season, but Slytherin were simply outplaying them, their team seamless in the skies. Malfoy was the crowning glory, and after an hour, he seemed to disappear. A little anxious, Hermione tried to see what Harry was looking at, but he seemed as nonplussed as her.

"It'll be okay, don't worry. He's never flown so well. I'm glad you didn't announce your love for him before a Gryffindor game, we'd be in trouble," he smiled, taking her hand and squeezing it a little. Almost before he had finished his sentence, there was a mounting roar from the crowd, as a soaring Draco Malfoy accelerated almost vertically up the stands. Still unseen to Hermione, from their vantage point, Harry keenly reached forward to see what was below. Narrowly avoiding being smashed into by a rapidly accelerating Seeker, he stepped back in time to see the player emerge in front of them, hovering with the golden snitch fluttering as he held it tightly. Grinning at Hermione, his smile was wide and genuine as the Gryffindor front bench exploded in cheers. Ear splitting noise, as the lions celebrated the victory of the snakes for the first time in Hogwarts history. The couple, however, couldn't take their eyes off one another. They were untouched by the screams, in the way that only love can achieve.

"Slytherin wins! Malfoy has the snitch! Bastar… sorry Professor. 350-100 to Slytherin. Their house has never flown so well in recent memory, and it's unlikely they will do so again, with their Seeker returning to his mandated..." It didn't matter what else McLaggen had to say about Malfoy. Not anymore. He waved at her as he landed, snitch still sitting proudly in his hand. She loved him. That was what was important. Turning her head, she caught the furiously indifferent expressions on Ginny and Ron's faces. They had been there the whole time, stood there as she announced her love for Malfoy in front of the entire school. Even if it was accidental; surely they would react? She shot Harry a curious look, and he leant down to whisper to her as they gathered their belongings.

"I spoke to George about how things were going. He's set them straight. You mean a lot to the twins, we both do. So they'll toe the line." As she smiled, relieved that she had one less thing to worry about, he continued, "Shall we go see the Slytherins? After all, we seem to be their greatest fans today. Merlin, never thought I'd say that."

The excited celebrations from within the Slytherin locker room were something that would ordinarily have caused a great deal of consternation to the Gryffindor Captain. Instead, he knocked on the already open door, and congratulated them. If they were taken aback, they didn't show it, and began engaging in a conversation Hermione didn't quite understand. _Something tactical, with brooms involved_. Instead, she sought out the man she had come looking for. He was sitting on the bench, the only one remaining in kit, with a giddy expression on his face. Standing, he pulled her into a hug.

"I love you too, Hermione," he whispered.

Keeping her hand in his, he walked over and shook Harry's hand, thanking him for cheering them on. It had been a welcome surprise, after the less than exuberant support they had opened with. After some discussion, and surprisingly amicable chat, Harry was quickly ushered out of the changing room toward the party, by a team who had the kind of expressions he didn't like around Hermione. _Knowing ones_. Ones that made him want to potentially hide her away from male desire. He tried to push the thought from his mind, as the door shut behind him and they walked up to the castle.

The room was still steamy from the team having showered and changed so quickly, keen to rush off and celebrate their victory. He was closer than she'd realised, and for a moment the room was utterly soundless, the two attuned to each other's presence. And then, there was a hand on the small of her back, pulling her body against him, and another hand in her hair, pressing her own lips into his. He was commanding like she hadn't known, and she relished in it. He was firm, hard muscle; a heated, thunderous heartbeat; hers. She was kissing back, her tongue running along his lower lip every time he pulled back for a breath, her arms wrapped loosely around his neck. He still smelt of gentle spearmint and rich frankincense, but there was something else there too. Something that felt like spice, smelt like desire and tasted of home. Victory was good on her man.

"I see you didn't shower with the team," she said. Her eyes were wide and innocent, tone soft. Her expression was like a venereal red rag, and he immediately had his lips on hers, tongue pressed into her mouth as her hands were on the clasp of his cloak. His sweater was off, and her fingers were tugging lightly on his collar, as he sank onto the bench and pulled her onto his lap. As her fingers deftly unbuttoned his shirt, he kicked off his boots and shin guards, arching his hips up against her core. She could feel the outline of his hard cock, teasingly close. Throwing her head back a little in frustration exposed her slender throat, something he took full advantage of as he pressed his lips against her, running his teeth over her pure skin. As his own shirt fell from him, his hands began to knead her pert arse and she could feel the dampness forming in her underwear.

Her fingers went to the button of his beige trousers, keenly taking hold of his erection and writhing a little as she realised it was thick enough that her fingers didn't quite wrap around it. He was groaning, never had he imagined she would ever be so naughty in the Slytherin changing room of all places, and his heart was still hammering with the rush of flying, of winning. His fingers expertly dragged the small buttons of her flowing rose pink blouse free, one by one until he wrenched the fabric open and exposed the supple swell of her breasts. As his hands slid over the lace bra, she groaned as his breath felt hot on her tits. With a smooth snap, her bra fell forwards and his hands began to grope her full breasts. They felt perfect in his hands, and she moaned wantonly as he tongued the small, perky nipples that sat in his hands; shifting to tweak and tease them with his fingertips. He was chasing her whimpers, and she was loving every moment of it.

He moaned as she stepped back from him, as she reminded him of the need to shower soon or people would come looking for them. She was right, she always was. Yet, she hadn't walked away, instead she was on her knees in front of him. _Fuck. _Her hands were on the waistband of his trousers, pulling them down to free him entirely from the constraints. She kissed the very tip of him, her lips pressed against him in a way that would have been chaste had it not been placed on his leaking cock. It was incredible. Her brown eyes were just as wide as they had been when he'd started this, innocence personified. She looked happy, and warm, and in the mood to indulge. He wasn't wrong. Still watching at him, she licked along the entire length of his underside, her tongue gentle on him. _Tease_. As if she could hear his thoughts, she kissed him again, this time pushing the tip of her tongue against him as she suckled his precum. Just as he tried to control his response, she surprised him again, taking his head into her mouth. Hot, warm and wet; she welcomed him. Sucking him, her tongue playing little games against him as she moved her mouth up his shaft. She hummed sensually, every vibration seemingly targeting his balls which tightened sharply.

Draco forced himself to look away from his little witch, who was giving him so much pleasure, attempting in vain to keep himself together as his body ached for release. His eyes were practically streaming and his thighs were quivering, her small fingers pressed into his buttocks as she let every recess of her mouth torment him. As if to spite him, she tipped her head back just enough for his cock to push ever so slightly into her throat. It was his undoing. He half pulled out, but her mouth was tight around him and her hands were still on his arse. His eyes screwed up, he came in six long, stroking pulses of his cock on her tongue. As he came to his senses, panting, about to apologise for not warning her in time, he saw a wicked spark in her eyes and the shift in her delicate throat as she swallowed his seed.

"Time for your shower, Mr. Malfoy," she grinned.

As they left the changing rooms, both with damp hair and extremely satisfied expressions, he took her hand. There was no need to hide things anymore. Everyone knew precisely who had his interest, who would always have his interest. She was his, always. He knew from the way she'd howled out his name as he ploughed into her, pressing her tits against the cool shower tiles. He knew from the way she was wearing an emerald green jersey with his name on the back. He knew from the way his heart fluttered when he thought of her. He loved her, and he would do everything to keep her. _His perfect __girl_.


	40. Home

Home

Harry's anxiety over visiting Grimmauld Place for the first time since they had accidentally allowed the Death Eaters access was building. Easter was still a month away, and every foray into his mind set out fears more consuming than the last. It had been her fault, really, though he apparently didn't see things like that. Yaxley had been holding her arm as she apparated, and she had been too nervous to alter their destination directly. Ron had been splinched anyway, and the secret had been shared. She had given Sirius' ancestral home to Voldemort, something she was sure she would not have been forgiven for. They hadn't been back, over the Summer. Things had been so hectic, so overwhelming, that there had been no excess emotional energy to give to a trip to the house. Grimmauld Place may have become a hideout, and they hadn't trusted the Ministry to be able to confirm that wasn't the case, not in a house so full of dark secrets. It may have been ransacked: there were items that she hadn't squirrelled away in her beaded bag, and if she had lost anything sentimental, anything Harry wanted of his Godfather, she wasn't sure she could handle it. _Not then, and perhaps not even now._ She was feeling stronger, but disaster remained a looming grim. Lying to him wasn't helping. He was putting so much of himself into building his nerve for the trip, a trip that she had no intention of completing. Not for his purposes, anyway. It was a vice, holding onto her stomach, and a screw turning into her heart. Eventually, she sought out Draco, unable to keep her anxieties and guilt to herself any longer. As she sat next to him on an eau de Nil tartan blanket by the lake, she felt her stomach relax a little as she explained. It was like a release valve had finally been opened, and she took the first full breaths she felt she'd had in a long while.

"Take him this weekend. Please. I don't want you to feel like this anymore, it's not healthy. I don't want you feeling nervous, not for this."

As he wrapped his arms around her protectively, she played her lip between her teeth and finally broached the question she'd been equally nervous about. "Will you come? To show him the cottage?" He looked astonished; it was clearly not something he had expected to share. After a few confirmations that she was sure, and a couple of minutes with her in his arms, he agreed. The stage was set.

It was Sunday lunchtime as they entered the common room, and Harry was standing by the window looking out toward the pitches, apparently wistful for a return to the skies. The last Gryffindor match of the season was close to the end of term, months away, and no amount of practices or competitive snitch seeking with Draco was able to satisfy him. Not for the first time, Hermione was immensely grateful that Puddlemere United had tactfully ignored him when he turned down their offer the first three times. She tiptoed up behind him, and wrapped her arms around his waist, grinning as he yelped, "Will you come on an adventure, Harry?"

He turned toward her, scooping the little witch up so he could look directly in her eyes, "Is this one of your weird Azkaban type adventures? Because I'm done with those for a while." Draco's smooth, deep laugh resonated within the room, as Hermione scowled and wriggled in her demand to be returned to the floor. He was in full agreement with Harry on her 'adventures.'

"Rest assured, I wouldn't have signed up if it was anything like last month's Rita Skeeter themed escapade." When Harry's face remained blank, Draco rose an eyebrow at her, "Ah, you didn't tell the Chosen One of your housebreaking? I'll bring him up to speed on the way." Hermione's blush had both men laughing, as Harry paused to pick up the map and cloak. He refused to go on any adventures, no matter how tame they were in theory, without them. As they made their way through the castle, Harry was quietly updating Draco on her blackmail antics around Rita after the Triwizard Tournament, including a choice anecdote about her frustration after yet another article was published about the two of them. She had thrown an unabridged copy of Potion Opuscule at Fred Weasley's head after he had asked her to give them the juicy details of stealing Harry's virginity, as per Skeeter's latest column. Fred had always maintained that it had left him a scar, emotional though it may have been. By the time they had made their way to the Hog's Head, both men were close to tears and buckled with laughter.

Stepping out into the cobbled backlane behind the pub, Hermione was re-evaluating her contentment with the budding friendship between the two men in her life. While she appreciated the absence of any fighting, they had developed an unfortunate tendency of ganging up against her. Before they could delve any deeper into her 'misdeeds,' as they saw them, she offered each an arm for side along apparition. She still hadn't explained where they were going, and had been maintaining an innocent expression every time Harry tried to get an answer from her. As she felt both men grip her arms, they departed with a sharp pop.

St Jerome's Church was beautiful in the Spring. The sunlight was filtering through the pruned spruce trees, the air was fragrant with pine needles and the ground had a softness she hadn't known from any of her previous visits. The stones seemed to have taken on a new posture too: standing taller, the inscriptions clearer than they had been during the freeze-thaw of winter. It was the early afternoon, and the usual stream of parishioners were now long settled within their homes awaiting lunch. They had the grounds to themselves. Walking along the narrow slate path, Hermione went ahead as Harry tried to get his bearings, pausing by the timeworn wooden board to wave over the tall, broad frame that the trio were now wearily familiar with.

"Good afternoon, Williamson," Hermione said brightly, though her smile didn't quite reach her eyes. The Auror grunted in response and elected to follow the trio at a distance. As Harry raised an eyebrow at her, confused both as to the man's presence and his apparent remaining attitude, and she responded easily, "I have to take him with me, he gets really upset if he spends too much time away from me. Complains to Kingsley that he misses me." Laughing, they passed through the rickety gate out into the lane. Hermione smiled as Draco slid her hand into his, squeezing gently as they walked, while Harry had her arm tucked into his elbow. It was a companionable walk up to the High Street, and it was only as the first shops came into sight that Harry faltered as he finally recognised where they were.

"Hermione? Has something happened?" His voice was urgent, and slightly raised, as she took his hand too. _Shit_. She should have guessed he would panic. Reassuringly, she gently explained that she wanted to show him something good, that today would be an adventure like they'd never known: a happy one.

Draco looked confused, "Don't you like the village?" He questioned, jingling his new Muggle currency within his overcoat pocket, as they continued walking past the charming little bakery they had shared an Eccles cake from last time.

Harry began to explain his last visit to Godric's Hollow, to an increasingly horrified Malfoy, "…so Voldemort hid his snake in Bathilda's corpse, and when I was upstairs she was speaking in Parseltongue. That's why she wouldn't talk in front of 'Mione. I heard Voldemort order her to keep me there, and then the snake bit me. Hermione rescued me, as usual, and we jumped out the window and disapparated just as we saw him arrive. It was quite the night."

As they reached the end of the winding lane, reaching the village square, Draco let out a huge breath. _Quite the night. _The two of them were far too flippant with these things. "Was this on Christmas Eve, by any chance?" When Hermione nodded, Draco continued, "Makes sense. Let's just say we didn't have a particularly merry time at the Manor last year. He was furious. Nagini was injured badly, he took my mother's blood to replenish her." Shivering, despite the warmth of the day, he swallowed the memory. "So, Bathilda Bagshot, the respected author of Hogwarts: A History, ended her days being possessed by the Dark Lord's creepy pet?"

As they crossed the road to enter the green, Harry began to laugh. Catching his breath, he explained as they entered the park, "Sorry, I just think it's good the two of you have found each other. Hermione was horrified that was how she had come to die, given she wrote her favourite book."

Finally, the trio arrived to the monument. Draco stepped back toward Williamson, giving Harry space as he traced the stonework of his mother's hair. As Hermione conjured a wreath of sunny daffodils and laid it at the foot of the statue; flowers for new beginnings, for bravery, for joy. Draco couldn't help but feel he was somewhat intruding, until Harry shot him a curious look when he noticed the distance the man had placed between them. Still unsure, he tentatively took a step forward until Harry beckoned him to stand with them. They took Hermione's hands again, and took a moment in the silence that only Sunday afternoons ever seem to hold to pay their respects to Lily, to James, to all who had fallen for what they now had. Harry felt the edge melt away, the tension he'd felt upon realising where they had returned to. He was free to return here, to his hometown, any time he liked. Without fear. There would be no more Nagini's. There was just a wistfulness, that he couldn't remain there, close to his parents.

"Let's go home?" Hermione asked, smiling at Harry, who followed her lead toward the North gate of the village green. Her stomach was squeezing now, the familiar feelings of anxiety and anticipation as the moment came closer. She knew he was probably a little confused, wondering why it was so imperative they visit the monument today of all days, wondering why they were going to pass the ruined property. His confusion mingled with her fear: would he be disappointed that she had changed the home he was born in? Would he be angry it was no longer the monument to his parents, to the light, that it had been intended to be? She was immensely grateful for Draco's firm, soothing grip on her hand. Without it, she felt as though she might simply blow away in the breeze. One step after the other, she kept walking until the cottage came into sight. And yet, there was no reaction from Harry. No question, no gasp, not even any anger. Draco was waiting too, and she knew he couldn't see anything other than the monument it had once been, but why wasn't Harry reacting? _It couldn't be a good sign_.

"Hermione, where exactly is my parents' house? I can't see it," Harry asked, a frown forming on his face as they came to stand directly in front of the cottage.

With a chilling spark, she understood. Her magic had worked. She had never asked Draco if he could see the monument as it was, the ruined shack the cottage had become. She had just assumed that because he couldn't see the house, he saw the remnants of Dumbledore's magic. Her protective charms had hidden the house altogether, more similar to the defences of Grimmauld Place than she could have hoped for. There was nothing for it, there would be no gradual reveal for Harry. It would come all at once. She braced, and asked them to clarify, "Neither of you can see, can you?"

As they shook their heads, she smiled a little, and unhooked the cross-top gate to step through. She held a hand out to Draco first, who stepped through the wards and then to Harry, who clung to her hand tightly as though he was unsure of what he was going into. For a time, Hermione wasn't sure what Harry thought of the garden. She followed his eyes as they found the tidy lawn, the purple flowering aconite, boughs of thistle-like wormwood, young ochre sprouts of fireseed bush, and smooth tendrils of aloe vera, the lilies by the pond beneath the mature wiggentree. He stepped forward a little, along the even stones of the path. _Breathe, Hermione, breathe. _As he turned his attention to the trimmed, full ivy around the newly polished front door, he finally spoke.

"You've given me a home?" He looked at her, and he looked so vulnerable in that moment it burned her heart. His eyes shimmered with the threads of tears, and he couldn't seem to bring himself to say much more. She nodded, and hoped beyond hope that this was a good reaction, that he wasn't angry with her for interfering. A second later, she was engulfed within crushing arms against Harry's broad chest, and her worries melted away into his warm strength. Despite the squeeze, she felt her breaths come more freely than they had all day, and she whispered softly into his ear, reminding that he had always had a home with her.

"Can I tell him about you almost dying to give him a bloody garden now?" drawled Draco, who had regained some of the glower that had so diminished around the two of them of late. Hermione tried to continue through the front door, in the vain hope that Harry had lost his hearing, but to no avail when he queried what he meant. "Moonseed, your garden was covered in it, apparently it's the only place in Britain it grows. She's put sweat, tears and spinal fluid into this place."

Harry was, of course, horrified and practically pushed her through the front door. About to embark on a lecture, she smirked over at Draco when he was distracted by the entrance hall: a thick coir pile doormat ran horizontally by the door, wall to wall, after which there was a hardwood console table adorned with a framed photo of Harry and Sirius beneath a mirror. Hermione took her coat off, and hung the double-breasted trench on the pegs within the hidden alcove behind the door. Tucking her shoes back neatly on the stone shelving, she turned to the boys expectantly. Harry followed suit, and grinned as he returned to casually walk through the house. _A home_. _A home for him_. _A real one_.

Stepping past the Biedermeier low back side chair, she guided Harry past the stairs into the living room. The focal point was a broad set cast iron fireplace within the chimney breast, carved with intricate fruit and urn artwork. Beside it sat a woven trunk filled to the brim with perfectly chopped firewood ready to burn. With a neat flick of Hermione's wood, it levitated over to the grate and the kindling lit with a crackle. The ceiling beams were more pronounced in the room, making the room cosier than its large floorplan would otherwise make it. The neat, exposed floorboards were covered in a silky Persian rug, the restored sofa the Potter's had owned as a loveseat against the larger seating, and a dark wood bureau ready to house all of their game night activities.

"There's an armchair too, from the same set, where your Mum used to feed you as a baby. But it's not in this house… I can show you it, but I think it'll have to stay where it is." The two curious looks she garnered from the two men immediately made her realise she had given away far too much information to pretend otherwise, and so after a raised eyebrow from Harry, she relented. "It's at Professor Snape's house." All hell broke loose then. Both men had questions, and she cringed slightly as she settled into a seat and waited for them to decide what to ask first. "I… uh… I visit there sometimes. He left me his property when he died. He has a portrait there, and I noticed that the chair I sit in matches with this set. He came here after your parents died, trying to save you all himself against Voldemort, but he was too late and I guess he wanted something to remember your mum by. It's really important to him, so I don't want to take it away from him, but I don't think he would turn you away from sitting in it on occasion. He doesn't mind all too much when I do."

Draco couldn't believe his Godfather had left his home to her. He knew there was something suspicious about that particular relationship: she had seemed too comfortable with a man who had vocally derided her for years for there to not have been some sort of detente between the two. Still, however, to leave his home to her was a rather bold move, and he was now regretting his little show in the Ministry. _Thank god they made up when he was already a portrait, he'd hate to have to compete against him_. _Impressing her with his Potions._ Shaking the thought from his head, he was pleased too. Pleased that his Godfather had found some companionship in death. He loved and respected him, and deeply regretted his attitude toward him in the last two years before he passed. His father would have kittens if he had ever discovered the man was friends with her: potentially a bigger betrayal than his disappointment of a son.

Harry was just about coming around to the idea that Snape had stolen furniture from his house, and was moving onto the concept of Hermione sneaking out of bed to pay late night visits to their terrifying, though undeniably brave and brilliant, Potions Master. He had known she was slipping out of the castle somehow, and he supposed that it must have been Snape who told her of the new secret tunnel, but it was still a little disturbing. He was rapidly becoming outnumbered by Slytherins held within her heart. And he was in her heart, he could tell. His compassionate Hermione certainly hadn't faded since the war, and he wouldn't deny Snape a position in their home if that was what he wanted.

"Maybe, well, maybe he could visit here somehow, if he wants to see more things? I'm sure you could find a way of making that possible. If he wants, obviously. If he doesn't want to see me, I don't have to be here."

Hermione laughed, both at Harry's fears about imposing on the man and Draco's eyebrows hitting his hairline, "He doesn't hate you Harry. Doesn't even resent you anymore. We told you, at Christmas, he knows you're your own person. He's ready to make peace with you." When she saw his hesitance, she continued, "He doesn't lie. Not anymore, he's… well rather brutally honest now. I think he tired of the games."

As emotions settled, she guided them through to the room next door, in which sat a waxed farmhouse table with all of the scratches, knots and dents that came with solid chestnut wood. It was ready for more too, a real family table, surrounded by eight, heavyweight velvet upholstered chairs with low snub arms, and enough cushioning to invite long evenings in this, the heart of the home. There was no fire, but the open kitchen exuded enough warmth from the range even now that there was no need. It was beautiful, it was homely in a way Harry had never known. There were windows out to the garden, and a rich wool rug beneath their feet. Harry stepped into the scullery, peeking in the cabinets to find them equipped with every item of tableware he could possibly think of. There was a thick door, which he pushed open, finding a pantry shelving jars, wicker baskets and spice pots ready to be filled. After the Dursley's, he had never imagined he could be excited about cooking, but now? He was. He longed to go shopping and have a home filled with food, a home where he never had to be concerned about going hungry. He was overwhelmed, and realised there were tears only when Hermione gently wiped them away and took his hand.

"So over here is a utility room, but Kreacher doesn't want us going inside for some reason. I think he wants a second nest here, but it's a route out to the garden and has space for your brooms and flying kit, so he might have to rethink that one."

After the kitchen, and a brief nose around in the study and Potions lab, which Harry vowed to help fill with as many books as Hermione had ever shown an interest in, they made their way upstairs. Harry finally explained the discreet ruby symbol set within each of the leadlights. _The Deathly Hallows. _As Draco laughed at the effort poured into that little touch, and remembered how big a part he had in giving Harry the Elder Wand, there was a gasp as Harry discovered Teddy's room. Giving him some time to explore, knowing that it was likely where _everything_ had happened, Draco and Hermione headed downstairs. Returning to the kitchen, Hermione set some hot water to boil for tea, the two sat around the dining table waiting for Harry. Draco held Hermione close as he asked her to pass him the music box he'd entrusted to her that morning. He placed it on the window sill, and took her hands in his. It was time, time to explain.

"It's a duplicate, of the one that I put in my father's cell. Azkaban, it won't rehabilitate him. He might as well die, but… I can't kill him. We know that, from the Astronomy Tower, I'm not that man… I want, I need him to know that he hasn't infected my worldview. I love you, and I will love you always. I want him to know that I have found you, that I strive to make you happy every day, and that the Malfoy name will come to mean something new: tolerance, and doing good things for the world. I want you to put every happy memory we make together in that pensieve. It'll allow you to revisit them whenever you like, of course, but it'll also play the sounds to him. He can't stop it. When he tries to close it, he gets an electric shock."

Hermione smiled softly; it really was an extraordinary piece of magic. "What had he put in the box? When it was sent to me? I assume it was him, sent courtesy of Rosier." Draco hesitated, unable to tell her. "Was it the torture, at his house?" His eyes widened, almost wanting to deny it, angry that someone related to him would treat her like that, angry that people were trying to upset her. "You're not him, Draco. You're so much more. I'll put our memories in here, ones that mean something to me, ones that I want to revisit. If that means he hears it, that's fine with me. Maybe it'll help him, maybe it's a punishment. Either way, I want to make lots of happy memories with you, so thank you for giving me some extra storage. I love you." She kissed him, chastely on the lips, before looking up into his eyes. She loved him. She loved him so much it was a wonder her heart didn't explode.

Stumbling across the scene, Harry paused to let them have a moment before interrupting, "I'm starving. Shall we go and find din…" Before Harry could finish the sentence, there was a loud crack and Kreacher appeared in front of them.

Glowering at the three, as though the idea of leaving the house for dinner was an insult to him, he spoke, "Master Potter; esteemed heir to the Malfoy house, kind hearted Mudblood filth. Kreacher is ready to prepare your dinner within the familial home."

As Harry stared agape at the elf, he simply nodded his agreement, unable to speak, before turning to Hermione, "You tied an elf to serve us in the house?" But her confused face told him that she hadn't quite turned away from that particular set of values. Filing the question away to ask Kreacher when he returned, the conversation turned to the rather large, house shaped secret Hermione had been keeping. "How long have you been doing this?"

Hermione flushed red, rather ashamed with how long she'd kept the surprise from Harry. It had taken so long, with everything that had happened that year, to finish. She had anticipated it going faster, if it was possible to repair the property at all. "I came here to take a look for the first time during the first Hogsmede weekend. I cast as much magic as I could to secure the house, to ward it and repel Muggles altogether. I put a Fidelus Charm on it, but wasn't sure it would work. I was… worried that if I let people in on the secret, they could tell others."

Draco laughed, "Yeah, she'll be obliviating me once we leave. She's convinced her magic won't hold. She's done so much to keep you safe, Potter. She's really taken it to the nth degree, as with everything. She's had Neville advising her on the garden, she convinced me to draw out floorplans and I helped eradicate the moonseed. And then she got an interior designer to help purchase furniture after our ill-fated trip to Diagon Alley, which Kreacher and that drunken little Hogwarts elf helped fit. Thought Hermione did try and move all of the furniture the Muggle way for a while."

Harry laughed, aware that when they were focused, both himself and Hermione tended to naturally return to Muggle habits. "Well, no more obliviating necessary." As Hermione began to show every sign of interrupting, he continued, "Not only is it painfully obvious that your magic worked better than Dumbledore's did, as I couldn't see my own house… or even work out where it used to be, it's generally best if the people who live somewhere know where their own house is."

It took a minute, a full minute, for that to sink in. Draco couldn't quite believe what he had heard. Was Potter really asking him to move in? _Surely not_. He must mean to visit Hermione, which was already more than he had expected. He knew that the man did not like imagining the two of them in close quarters, and he had become accustomed to returning her to the bed she shared with Harry each night. He trusted them both, and whatever helped Hermione deal with things was absolutely what he wanted. "Potter. That's really not necessary, I have no intention on intruding in your home. If you're happy for me to visit, I'd appreciate that, maybe even by floo if Chief Auror Granger allows that obvious security risk…" he drawled, ignoring her scowl as he tried to dispel the mistaken invitation with humour.

As Harry laughed, the kitchen felt warmer, felt more homely than ever even to Draco, as the three clutched their steaming mugs of tea. "You're not so bad. For a Malfoy. You don't have to move here, of course, but I don't think you want to go back to the Manor. Not really. And I want Hermione to be happy. And I want someone to talk Quidditch with. And I want Teddy to know his cousin. And I don't want Hermione to ever feel torn between her commitment to help bring Teddy up, her friendship with me and her love for you. I want this to be a warm, busy family home. Who knows? Maybe someday the two of you will grow it larger. I want this to be a happy place."

Draco felt his face warm, and wasn't quite sure what to say. He simply nodded, grateful as Hermione's hand snaked over to hold his own comfortingly beneath the table._ It was a lot_. He had never felt particularly wanted before, no one had ever asked for his presence. He had always felt slightly aloof, even to his own family he was a means of continuing the family name, not a child to be cherished. This year, with Hermione and with Potter too, he had found people who seemed to genuinely want him around. Want him around for him. It was the most bizarre feeling he'd ever known, and while he knew there would be awkward moments and strange rumours, and times he would likely regret agreeing to live with Harry Potter, it was also the first time he had felt quite so content beyond Hermione's arms.

Thankfully, his thoughts were cut off before he became too visibly emotional, as Kreacher reappeared with a crack. As the table was set with a bowl of mouth-watering goulash, and a veritable mountain of creamy mashed potato, they filled their plates. Hermione poured another spoon of the thick gravy over her potatoes, and as she tasted her first forkful of the tender beef and vegetable stew, her eyelids fluttered shut in delight.

"I love Kreacher's food, I don't know how he does it!"

A/N: An Epilogue still to come.


	41. Epilogue

Epilogue

It was twirling again. The blasted figurine. He had not been able to shut the box, despite its torment. Not without his wand. He had learnt to stop trying, before the ice came to his cell, even before the warmth had been there. It had been there for one period of heat, and now there was cold. Eyeing it uncomfortably, he noted that the figurine was spinning faster now, and with it came the dread. Dread of learning what further mess his son had made of the Malfoy name. He didn't have to wait long to find out.

_Tinkling Christmas music played softly in the background, the wireless chiming out the song Draco had come to know all too well as he sang, much to Teddy's amusement who cheered and joined in as best he could while Draco ungainly danced with him held in his arms._

"_We hear the Christmas angels, the great glad tidings tell; O come to us, abide with us, Our Lord Emmanuel!" Draco finished, trying to remember what Hermione had explained about precisely who this unknown aristocrat was. The door squeaked open, and he turned to see who had finally emerged at what was apparently the perfectly acceptable time to start Christmas with a toddler: five in the morning._

"_Well… I love your singing in the morning, it makes me so happy! Merry Christmas Teddy, you too Draco," grinned the boy, voice thick with tiredness. "'Mione is just finishing off the cinnamon rolls in the oven, under Kreacher's supervision of course. I don't think he's very impressed with her kitchen takeover."_

_Draco laughed, and passed the wriggling boy to Harry for a cuddle. "I'm sure Teddy will enjoy sprinkling pastry everywhere, and we'll get to hear Kreacher complain about our messy little half 'bee' 'arr' 'e' 'e' 'dee' well into the New Year."_

_The door squeaked again, and Teddy made a break for it. Hermione only just managed to pass the platter across to Harry before she was tackled to the ground. Laughing, she scooped him up and sat him on her lap by the tree. "Teddy! You can't still be this excited to see me? You climbed into our bed hours ago." Nevertheless, she hummed contentedly as he wriggled into her lap and Draco sat behind her, peppering kisses across the back of her neck._

_Draco turned to Harry, yawning as the man laughed, "Hours ago means before midnight. He climbed in between us and insisted we both cuddle him. Every time I tried to turn around, he managed to pull me back, and he practically crushed this sleepy little witch." It had become a frequent habit, since the boy had transitioned out of his cot, to climb in bed with them. If his Dada had been away for a few days, he wanted Hermione and Harry; if not, Draco and Hermione. There had even been several occasions where the lot of them had fallen asleep in a tangled mess as they acquiesced to Teddy's wishes._

_As the betraying crunching of crispy pastry began, there was a rustling as Harry began to gather Teddy's gifts ready for when he had finished his breakfast. "Granny Andy is coming for lunch, and Uncle Neville too. Kreacher declined your invitation to join, I'm afraid, 'Mione!"_

_As the group laughed, it was clear that Teddy had begun approaching his gifts. There was the tear of paper, rapid scrunching, as he unveiled a huge wooden playset: "Yay! Ows!"_

"_Owls, Teddy, yes! Father Christmas has brought you an Owl Post Office set. Here, let me and Draco help you build it. It has nice owls, just like Hedwig in the stories Dada tells you." The room descended into raucous confusion, a real tale of too many elves in the kitchen, as some of the brightest minds of the Wizarding World came together to set up a wooden toy. It was taking some time, and Teddy had already discovered an embroidered stuffy Hedwig that he was carting around amongst everyone's feet._

The first time he had heard the chirping of the child, Lucius had imagined it to be the bastard spawn of Potter and Granger. The boy was precisely the type to allow her to carry to term after a convenient fuck in their little tent, and think nothing of further polluting the world with half-bloods. Yet, they had persevered with being Uncle and Auntie for months prior to accepting their simpering 'Dada' and 'Mama' titles from the boy. He had never allowed Draco to call him such things, of course, and he knew a good thrashing would have won them the argument. They were weak, too pathetic to discipline the boy. Hardly surprising from Potter, barely strong enough to cast an unforgivable. Yet her? She had dominated the courtroom on their last meeting. She was admittedly powerful, tough too, but unwilling to hold the child to account. A Mudblood through and through.

Things had become yet more confusing when he heard his own progeny referred to as 'Uncle Draco;' though a poorly pronounced rendition of it. Indeed, the relationship between the two was something to which he was frequently subjected. Draco, when not in work, had apparently become some sort of House Elf enslaved to the child and the Mudblood. He was forever carrying the child, feeding it, even coaxing the child through multiple sicknesses. It was an impossible state of affairs, and yet it was so. With the girl, he was no different. He attended events on _her_ arm, not the other way around. He was complimenting her, encouraging her to eat more like some sort of fetishist, rubbing her back when she had a 'long day.' He behaved like a lovesick puppy, not a Malfoy. The constant stream of adoration, the affection, his outspoken desire to put a baby in her, to have her bound to him. Not that he phrased it like that, no, the idiot used flowery language and courted her with respect, told her how lucky he was. _A Malfoy!_ Lucky to be intimately entwined with a Mudblood? The vilest one of all, too. It should have passed by now, and yet it hadn't. He seemed worse, if anything, and he had considered whether he had been subject to an Unforgivable. Yet he had seen him, heard him defend her, his 'love' for her right there in his cell when the boy had left behind the infernal box. How a Malfoy could fall so low as to be the subservient man in a strange little threesome, he didn't know, and yet his son had achieved it. Had it not been for the extensive charms he had cast on Narcissa while she was pregnant, he would have questioned his position as heir.

It was symptomatic of what was happening in society, it seemed. They had lost all progress in the Wizarding World. They had turned their backs on the advancements made under the Dark Lord. It was not that he couldn't see the damage that had occurred, but surely, surely the progression toward the ideal had been worthwhile? He had given his dignity, his wife's blood, his son's life, to the cause. A cause which had been overcome by a motley crew of lowlife traitors, somehow. It was relatively successful too, by their own measures. He had been subjected to so many of _her_ victories. The changes to the Wizengamot, that his treacherous son now sat on to the exclusion of almost every family he respected, the failure of the Lestrange Appeal that she thwarted at every turn. The purge of the last remaining Death Eater sympathisers from the Ministry, who would now languish in Azkaban after her coup. The changes at Hogwarts, the school at which he had so dominated the board, with the mandatory study of Muggles as a 'culture'. _His own money funding the program_. He should have killed the little bitch while he'd had the chance. The situation the world now found itself in was precisely why women were not suited to politics. They were vindictive with power.

The chaotic noise continued to echo around the otherwise empty cell, invading his sanctuary. He had thought prison torturous, but found that once the memories began, he had failed to completely comprehend quite how bad things could be. It had started slowly, months after his so-called son had visited. It had started with the day the three graduated, with enough soppy remarks of love to thoroughly confuse him. She was a whore, that was for sure, for her heart seemed to bleed for more than one man. After a few months, he could tell that the memories didn't all belong to her. His son and Potter had apparently engaged in the effort to irritate him, with their ridiculous Quidditch game trips and Draco's breakthrough with Bella's playthings at St. Mungo's. Never before, however, had such blatant white noise continued for so long as the figurine continued to spin, without another memory returning to replay. He had little choice but to settle into the stone alcove he preferred, not that there were many options, and wait to hear what else they had in store for him. As the noise calmed, and the toy seemed as assembled as it was going to be without someone more practical to help, Teddy's soft voice filtered through.

"_Uncle Draco! Send a letter with Hedwig… PLEEEASE," he added as a grinned afterthought. He was practicing his manners of late, and was very enthusiastic about it. A garbled game began, with the three ordering various items, sending letters and enquiring about international mailing charges at Teddy's new shop. Once had had settled into the processes of running his new capitalist empire, the adults turned to their own gifts._

"_So, Severus, how are you finding the armchair in your portrait? Is it comfortable? We can always have any improvements you want made in the New Year." Hermione's voice rang out sweetly._

_A familiar baritone replied, "It's perfectly comfortable, and entirely accurate to the armchair you have stolen from my house for your nursery. You always did have to overachieve, didn't you?"_

"_Think of it as your official contribution to the 'convince Granger to marry me and have our babies' campaign. You're a permanent part of our family now, Uncle Sev." smiled Draco._

"_Lucky me, to belong to such a selcouth ménage," the man snarked, though there was no doubt that he really thought himself as such._

It was Severus. Severus. _His Severus_. He had known the man had been a double agent, had learnt enough for him to feel the harsh sting of betrayal when he had been arrested after the Final Battle. Yet, who hadn't thought the Dark Lord was going too far, at times? He certainly had. When Narcissa was left to die, if no one had intervened, to help the snake. His wife, bleeding worthless on the filthy ground like a common Mudblood. It had been enough to make him consider that perhaps the man had lost his mind. Yet he had remained devoted, dedicated to his values certainly. So now, to hear Severus – of all people – cavorting with Saint Potter and the Mudblood whore and his own blood traitor of a son, and a half breed child over Christmas; to hear Severus on friendly, first name, gift giving terms with the girl in particular? It was too much. The dark magic of her heart had ensnared too many of those close to him, those he had served alongside, those he had fought with, those he had cared for. _It was enough_.

Severus, being bewitched even in death by that girl, was surely unendurable. _What was it with her? _It was unbearable. The box seemed to be replaying Snape's words, over and over and over again. In their house. With his portrait. Celebrating, happy with them. He wasn't sure he'd ever heard the man sound so relaxed before. He hadn't been convinced it was him for several seconds; his voice was richer, warmer than he'd ever known. The man seemed to truly believe he had found a family with them, with that collection of repulsive misfits. It had been bad enough when his own son had turned to them, but Severus? The man had always been content in his solitude. Death should have posed no qualms. What would have caused him to choose them? _What was her magic? _The noise. It wouldn't stop. The figurine had stopped turning, but the buzz of his voice, her voice, Draco's voice, their discussion remained in the cell. _Why wouldn't it stop? _Louder and louder. He crushed his skeletal hands over his ears, anything to stop listening, and yet the voices stayed just as loud as they had been. His body burned with anger, fury that was hot and white pain. His limbs felt as though they were being pulled from his body, and his gums ached as though they might bleed. The worst, however, was the crushing vice around his skull. The noise. It had to be stopped. _Why wouldn't it stop?_ The stillness of the figurine had always brought silence. No more.

Feebly, Lucius Malfoy fell to his hands and knees, a shadow of the man he had once been. He reduced himself to crawling, pulling himself across the icy stone floor toward the box. His eyes closed, he sucked his breath in with each inch he moved, the pain was dark and all consuming. The noise continued. He knew he was screaming, yelling, but he heard nothing but Severus, that Mudblood bitch and the boy. Again and again. It was unstoppable, louder and louder. He tried to wriggle forward, as best he could, falling flat to the floor as his arms kept giving way. It felt as though the girl herself was reaching into him and pulling his guts out. Ripping them. It was a brutal, lancing agony, and the box seemed to remain far from him. Still, he continued. _He would shut the box. He would stop the noise._

Finally, he was at the wall, and he gracelessly pulled himself up. He grabbed at the box, the thin skin of his arms exposing every sinew of bone and muscle as he reached forward, bracing himself. It shocked him, as always, the burning sparks flooding through him but he didn't let go. He gritted his teeth, and kept going. He would shut the box. He would stop the noise. He pulled it with him as he collapsed to the floor, writhing in pain. The intensity of the burning only increased as he continued to wrestle with it. He was on fire, and the noise remained deafening. It was incessant. The burning, it was in his chest now, as he continued to fight weakly against the magic. Every fibre of his being was raw and throbbing, almost as if every nerve was exposed to a fire. He had known nothing like it, and as the room faded, the voices only intensified. As he managed to wrap his hands over the lid, pushing it shut, all he could see was black. Yet the voices remained loud, even with the enchanted chest now shut, they were still there. He knew then that they would never go, that they would haunt him, even in death. His last breath was a tormenting rattle, stinging to its last moment.

Lucius Malfoy was dead. _Electric Perfection._

A/N: And we're done. I'd like to thank all of you, for coming along on this story. It was extremely therapeutic for me to write, and I hope you've enjoyed it. While I had planned the plot in advance, I wrote every chapter as I posted, so getting almost 150k words out in two months is quite an achievement for me in my spare time! It took a lot of nerve to post some chapters, but those are also the parts that I think I like the most. I want to take a moment to thank all of my reviewers. Every time I've posted, I've refreshed my statistics for hours afterwards, desperate to hear what you thought. You have no idea what a huge impact a review has, how widely you've made me smile.

To CatPeach, whose darker tendencies make me smile, and reassure me that I'm not losing my mind when I post a chapter that's a little more cunning, a little scarier, than the last. Thank you.

To ChelseaAlways, who empathised with Hermione right alongside me. Thank you.

To DangerouslyComplexMind, who seems to always review at the perfect time of writer's block, when I can't bare another second of thinking and typing and proofreading. Thank you.

To DragonLady37, who stood with me at the very beginning when I wasn't sure I could even do this, or if anyone would even want to read this. Thank you.

To ForsakenKalika, who held my hand with their review when I wasn't sure I handled difficult topics well enough. You put so much feeling in your feedback, you made me excited to write. My first ever review! Thank you.

To Grovek26, whose reassuringly quick reviews allow me to go to sleep without worrying every night I post. Thank you.

To IanAlphaAxel, who made me smile as they read so many chapters so quickly. You made me pleased I'm not the only one who stumbles on a story and can't look away. Thank you.

To Jacpin2002, who always puts detail in their reviews that reassures me that every silly plot point, every joke is actually getting read – and the growing read count is not a figment of my imagination. Thank you.

To Lun27, who gave me the most detailed feedback on what turns them on and off a story, feedback I'll be taking for my future planned fics. Thank you.

To Sammyleighlee, who absolutely smashed a review out every chapter, and blew my mind during the most stressful time of my summer, waiting for a delayed visa to process. You made a huge difference to my life beyond Fanfiction without even knowing. Thank you.


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